


Earth and Bone

by englishbutter



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: ALL THE LORE!, ALL THE MODERN DAY!, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Immortality, Meta, Modern Assassins, Slow Build, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2019-07-03 17:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 74,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15824004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englishbutter/pseuds/englishbutter
Summary: Desmond starts to think about the situation likeHighlander. As far as he can see, it isHighlander, except there’s no Game to win. All the questions he’s asked about what the point of it is have been deflected, and then he guesses after a while that they just don’t know.Immortality AU from AC1 to Odyssey.





	1. the first to breathe

**Author's Note:**

> There are heavy spoilers for all titles, DLC, and transmedia as of Sept 2018, and will continue to be so as more information is released by Ubi.

_Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being._

_So the Lord God caused the man to fall into a deep sleep; and while he was sleeping, He took one of the man_ _’s ribs and then closed up the place with flesh.  
_ _Then the Lord God made a woman from the rib He had taken out of the man, and He brought her to the man._

_Genesis 2:7, 2:21-22_

* * *

**_[BAYEK]_ **

His father’s _khopesh_ is a heavy, unyielding weight in his fist. Bayek raises it, and he roars as he brings it down upon Flavius. He is only half surprised as Flavius disappears once again before his eyes. Bayek turns, seeking him. His breath is ragged in his throat. “Enough!” he screams against his pounding heart. “Face me!”

The Lion does not reappear. Phantoms, more tricks emerge from the shadows, wearing the shapes of the men and women he has killed up and down the Nile. He raises the _khopesh_ , his shield, cutting them and shooting them down with iron-headed arrows. The Ibis, the Hippo, the Scarab, the Snake. Bayek’s one strength left is grief, and he wields it as the Hyena falls beneath his weapon. “I will _cut your heart out_!” He will, he will. May the Lion never know the afterlife he had taken from his son.

Bayek twists as he feels the air change behind him. The _khopesh_ catches flesh, and the Lion spits. Bayek barely avoids the blow that comes in retaliation, and his sandals slide against the floor. Flavius has revealed himself, and Bayek eyes the blood on his shoulder with pleasure. In Flavius’s other hand is the Orb, his face bunched into a hateful leer as he raises it high. Bayek dives to avoid the pillar of light Flavius sends his way, though barely. The fine hairs on his upper arm smoke. Sweat pours from him.

“My power, my potential, can you not feel it?” Flavius says. Bayek readies himself, adjusting his weight and rocking himself back to charge.

Flavius acts before Bayek can, and he raises the Orb. Flavius doesn’t direct another pointed attack at him, but it erupts from him in an all-encompassing wave, spreading in every direction like ripples from a stone dropped in water. Bayek can’t avoid it. The pulse catches him, and he becomes trapped like a fly in honey. He pulls at his legs with all of his might, but he may as well be submerged in quicksand. He bellows, and Flavius laughs, the Orb’s light burning itself into the back of Bayek’s eyes. He twists his head away, spittle flying from between his teeth as he strains against the force holding him.

“You almost ruined everything,” Flavius says. He takes Bayek by the jaw and forces him to look him in the eye. A sneer curls around his mouth. “But no matter. I have what I want — you, the Orb, and my position. I’ll savour your death. The Last of the Medjay.”

The Lion pushes his _gladius_ slowly into Bayek’s chest. The pain is awful, and Bayek is reduced to a spectator of his death. The point goes through his lungs, his heart, and scrapes along his ribs before it emerges from his back. Blood splatters onto the floor with a steady noise, and he can taste it in his mouth. Flavius’ face is mad with glee. “Find your afterlife with your ruined heart now, Egyptian.” He removes the blade with a single tug, and Bayek wheezes. He has the barest second to feel his failure before his conscious thought stops in the time it takes to snap his fingers.

A moment passes.

The space Bayek opens his eyes to is not the infinity he has met his enemies in, and he doesn’t think it’s the beginning of the journey to an afterlife he is not prepared to travel to. The gods he expected to greet him are absent, as is the long hall of columns he knows should be there. He is alone, and he thinks, _I am to be here forever._ Flavius would destroy his body to ensure he was never granted rest. Bayek places his hands above his shredded heart. He’s too defeated to think of anything, and he sinks to his knees. He’s failed Egypt, failed Praxilla, the people of Cyrene and Siwa, he has failed Hepzefa and Aya, and most of all, he has failed Khemu. A sob builds within his chest, and he screams a sound of animal anguish. He hurts still, but the pain he feels isn’t that of a physical wound but an emotional one. It’s so much worse.

He shivers when he feels a presence behind him, and he turns on his knees. The gods have come to judge him, he thinks. He is still alone. The space yawns and gapes with emptiness, pressing on him something awful. He feels petal-soft lips against his ear, and a voice whispers to him, the words so broken he can’t understand most of it.

 

 

w̑ͫͨ̿́͆̑͒͋̆ͤ͗ͨ͏̫̘͙͓̘̗̱͖͙̲̘̘͘e̓ͬͩ̓ͥͬ͗ͥ͒̔̋̃̋ͤ̃ͣ͑͑̋͏̡̺̘͕̪̟͚̭͇̬̝ ̸̡̳̖̹̲̝͓̖̘͓̤͆̔̐̏͒͛̀̌̓ͮͫ̆͌ͯ̐ͦ̃͗̑h̴̜̹̩̯̘̟̙͉̜͔̝̹̗̙̥̑̂̎̓ͦ̅͂̂͛͒̚͟a̸̡̳͖͎̗͇̩͇̣̽̈́ͯ̓̿́ͯ̿̍ͭ̅ͬ̀͛ͯ͘v̷̨̪̤̲͕̠̤̖̟̲̘͉̰̼̖̬̥̝̥̒ͪ̂͑̅͆eͧͥ͒ͩͪ̑̎͏̸͈͍̟̺̻̞̝̞͢͜ ̵̨̲̭̝̞͕͍̙̞͖͉͚̩̉͋̾̒̎̓̎̓͐ͣ̌̍͘ͅẅ̷̢̨̗̺͈̳͍͙̥̲͉̗̊̎͂̉̂̇̐̅ͤͯ̃ͯ̽̓͛͘͝a̶̡̍͐ͣ̔ͧ͑̌̕͏̹̫̱̖͉̳͚̩̱͙i̐̍͆͌̄̅͊͐̈͝͏̧̰͉̜̰͉̤̯̘̕t̴͖̝͉̝͖̥̞͓͌͐͗͊͢e͓̞̗̰̤̪̦͙̫̲̞̯ͬ̓̉͂ͫ̽̽͆̆̑̾̂́ͦ̿͗ͦ̚d̷̴͔̼̯͉͚̮̺̓̉̂͂ͤͫ͝ ͇̬̳̫̲͖̜̄̿ͭͭͭ̍ͭ̓̿̑ͤ̆̾̇ͫ̓̉̉͢͜ͅs̴̡̡̠̣̞̺͙̩̰̬̬̘͎̭ͫ̿̍̈́̀̾̂͟͡o̴̡̧͓̟̖̲͚̖͗͂͌̍̔̐̓̐̀͋͑̋̌̌ͯͭ͒̊ ̛͚̠̱̞̥̯͔ͦ̃̍̈ͤ͘͘͟͡l̯͉̝͙͚̜͖̙̘̼̺̪̑͋̅̽̀͒̾̚͠o̶̸͕̙̞̯̜͈͇͍̿͌ͬ̓̄ͤ͆͌́͜ͅn̳̞̠̹̻̲̲̟͙̣͎̽̌ͩ͆ͭ̋ͨ̓̒͌̀̑̾ͯ͌ͯ̚ͅġ͛̿͗̎̃͆̄ͭ͟͝҉̶̼̯͔̪͙͚̪̺͕͟ ̧̆ͭ̆ͧͬ͌͢͜͏̷͓̮̣̹̝͍͙̗͇̪̺͈͉̦̩̣͙̯ͅş̸͕̳͙̠̝̦̹̼̩͉͎̬̠̭͔̥̏ͨ̇̔͊̈́ͨ̂͂͛ͪ̄̋ͦ͘͠ǫ̷̎ͮ̊ͦ̐̾̊͝҉҉̣̙͔̖̺͚̠̫̝͖͕̱̥ ̵̰͉̻̪͇̼͕̺͈̣̫̜͋̄̇̉͒̎̀ͣͤ͠m̢͑̅ͤͬ̍̃̒͑͗̕͝҉͓̗͎̲̲̮ȃ̶̴͖̻̝̼̰̩̼̻̞̪̹̯̦͌ͫ͒ͬ̑̍͛͌ͧ̈́ͩ̌̄ͣ̆ͤ͝͠ͅn̷̼̯͇̖̣̗̖͒͒̍̇́ͯͬͬ̚͡ͅy̴̐̅ͬ͛ͣ̈ͧ͆ͣ͋ͩ̍͂ͫ͗ͪ̈̇̕͡͏̟͔̰͙̮̘̪̳̮̙̗̞͖̺̣̘̫̺̥͡ ̸̛͕̠̱͖̼̲̗̯͔̳̘͍̘̤͖͖̻̍̔̍ͤ̈̓͌ͅć̶̰̱͍͍̫̃̈̐͂̓̿̚̕l̴̨̗̤͉̙̪̺͓̱̺̼̦̫̞ͪ̒̈̾̏̈́͑ͦ͆̀̇͒̆̆̄ͥ͊͟ǫ̧̜̮͖͕̦̳̣̝̞̞̣̝͙̻̦̣̬̼ͨ̔̈ͤ͑͗ͫ͛̋͛͆͐ṣ̡̞̟̳̜̗̺̪̤̟͍͙̞͕̲̲̫̣ͫ̃̐ͤ̿ͯͮ́ͪ̓̉ͅeͨ̽̐̿̑̃̂͆ͪ̑̊̇̓̋̄̊̈̚̚҉̴̧̟͎̖̙̦̹͚̞͎̪̱̙̯͠ͅ ̷͎͙̦͖̲̣̦̣̫̪̼̠̳̅̔̿̃ͬͭ̆̾ͬ͛ͩ̑ͧ̎̈̎ͯ͊͝c̨̛̬̙͎̥̭̦̣̘͕̲͊ͪͣ̓̃̎a̓̏͗͐ͥ̉̾̈҉̴̛̭̭̱͎͙̪̦̣͉͙̺̳͓͇̦̫̻l̊͛͛͗҉̡͙̮̣̯̖̖̳͍͍̘ͅl̸̴̽̋͑̄̌ͬ̏̋̾ͩ̀ͧ̚̚͘̕҉͍͇̝͓̖̞̼̟͖̰͎̺̣ṡ̬̣͙̖͔͉͎̞̦̦̍͛̅ͣ͊͟͜ ̵̸̂ͯ͗̓͏̫͈̭̗̳̘͓̜̯̺͍̤̤b̷̠̖̰̪̫͎͕͇̯̭̜̝̠̦̗̤̜͇͂ͮ͋̄̓̂͛̿ͣ̎͒ͪͦ̄̃ͭͥͦͅu̷͓͎͔̼͌̽ͬ̂̇͐͗̽ͨ̐̾ͭ͌̽ͤ̃ͨ̚͡t̒̓ͬͤ̓̐̍͋̎̓ͣ͒̏͟͏̨̣̲͈̤̜̖̤͙̕͠ͅ ̼͉̳̣̯̪͓̏̍̾ͪ̔́̇̄ͫ̕͡ñ̨̾̈́͏̨̢͖̱̺̰̕õ̳̟̫͕͍̫̩͖̤̲͚̰͚̤̘̦̞̇ͪ͊ͥ̽͢͡w̢̨̮̮͎͚̪͈̲̯̪͉͕̲͔ͦ̒͛̾ͨͦ̒ͯ͛ͦ̂ͮ̚ ̰̞̦̥ͨ̅ͨ̃̈́ͪ͗͆̎̈́͟͡͝i̟̫̰̗̬̮ͩ́ͩͮ͐̓͊̿͘͟͡s̴͔̭͙͉̐ͩ̆̊ͣ͑̇̍̑̋̊̕͟ ̛̛̣̰̝͊̃̋͑̉ͧͥ͋ͭ͢͠t̨̉͐̄̆͆͐͗̊̆̄̃̿ͩ̅͑̏͋̃͞҉̵̱͇͔̗̣̣͍̣̘̭̦͔͍͉͜ͅh̸̺̼͍͚̪͌̅͑ͧ̋͂̄̄̾̄̄̇ͪ͆̕ȩ̲̘̭̣̹͍̳̪̰͛̿̑̓̐̊̄̔̄ͬ͢ ̾̋ͦ͂ͫ̋̀͏͍͚̦̟͓͈̩͎̪̥͚̲̫̙ͅf̷̡̩͎͍̙̟̮̰̠͈̌͋ͫ̊ͭ̀̊ͬ͂̚i̢̇̽ͭͪ͂ͣ̄̚͝͠͏͉̠͇̤̜͓n̵̢̡̼͚͉̟͆͑̓̋̓ͨ̑̎̽ͫͦ̆͋͘a̶̡̯̮̪̠̠̫̻̖̯̝̯̙̫̝̲ͬ̈́͋ͮ͂̇̅̕l̴̶̜͖͙͎̤̝̜̹͓̹̅͐̂ͪ́͌̓͗ͣ̐͂̿̈́̄ͩͩ̚͜ ̶̒͐̔͒͐̾ͦ̎͒ͭͩͤ̽ͮ͘͏̯̩̙̤̤̳͙̭̦̻̞͙͍͖̪̱̺͈ͅk͈̗̭̰̺̩͕̖̼͖̞̦̙͉͒́ͬ̎̋̃͘͜ͅn̡̮̦̤͕͔̘̯̲̝̤͇̥͚̖̫͖͙̋̈́ͩ͋̍͐͋͑͗ͭ̃ͣ͗ͧͪͬ̚̕͞ȩ̧̙̯͖̼̙̣̬̺̼̹̻͚͉̗̤͈͈̗ͤ͛͑̑ͫ̊̊ͅl͆̃͊ͮ̃̌͗͗̎͒̽̎̒ͫ̈̋̋͌ͩ͏̵͘͏̞͇͙̺̮̟̱͍ḻ̶̢̩̝͓̻̦̦̤͋̑̐͋̌̊

̵̮̤̣̳̙̭͉̤͉͖̼̞̥̩̯̼͑̽̽ͦ̎̌̇̃͊ͧ̅̉ͦ̐ͯ̈̈́B̛̟͇̺̗͙̖̭̠̬͔͕̝̦̘̟̫͚́̍̿̂͡R̴̡̛̜͚͉͚̙̙̖̭̹͍̞̮͛̇̽̔͌̏̓̅̆͋͗̊͌͐ͅE̢͖̭̰͚̘̳̰̲̩͔͔̍ͥͨ͗ͭ̉̓ͣ̊̽̍̽̈́ͤͤ̏ͭ̋̓͝Ä́̈́́̇̅ͬ҉̹̫͕̹͈̙̳̬͙̥̱͝ͅT́͂̓̑̉͞͏̢̨̳͍͍̹̳̯̗̘̖͎̣̺̳͝Ḩ̛̞̬̭͔̱͕ͩ̑̒̂ͫ͆ͪ̀ͪ̎͂͒̾͂͘Ě̢̧̧̩̣̲͓̜̫̰̗͕͉̜̤̍ͬ͋ͬ̅̃̓̍̍͑̍ͧ̈̃̎̅ͮ͜.̨̛̻̗̰̠̘̼̦̈́ͣͭͬͤ̆͊͊͂͊ͣͬ͌̇̕͡

 

Something slams in his chest. Bayek’s heart thuds, and his eyes fly open as he takes in a lungful of air. Colours burst into life. He sees red and white marble and the bright reflections of lit braziers on the stone. He sees the inky blackness of the lost ceiling and smells incense and blood. He feels the chill of the floor and air, and the blood slick against his bare skin. The cloth of his robe itches fiercely, and the soft leather of his breastplate rubs against his chest. He feels the weight of the hidden blade on his left arm, the emptiness of his right hand and the presence of the _khopesh_ which lies a finger’s breadth from it. He feels too the weight of Flavius kneeling over him. Bayek’s world moves so slowly he would have believed it if he had been told time had slowed to a still. He takes in every detail in a moment — Flavius above him with the Orb held high in both hands, ready to bring it down in a crushing blow upon Bayek’s skull. He sees the fire of hatred in his eyes and his snarl. He sees the fall of the cloth of his cloak and the centurion’s leather _pteruges_ on his shoulders falling with the movement of his arms.

Bayek seizes Flavius by the throat. The Lion is caught by surprise. He chokes, and one of his legs jerks against Bayek’s. He squirms in his grip, his hand on Bayek’s wrist as he tries to remove the pressure on his throat. Bayek doesn’t feel the gaping wound in his chest nor the blood still pouring down his front; he feels strong enough to crush Flavius’ head with one hand. Flavius is hitting him with the Orb, and its magic shines from between his fingers. Bayek tears it away from him, throwing it across the temple; it bounces into shadow.

Flavius screams as Bayek stands, his hand still clamped tight around his neck. Bayek throws him with a cry to the floor as hard as he can. The Roman tries to scramble towards the Orb, so panicked that he forgets about anything else. Bayek lets him try, then stamps on his lower back, pinning him. He crushes the man under his knee and lifts his head up by the hair to expose his throat.

“I-I-I _killed_ you,” Flavius whines as Bayek extends the blade on his wrist. “You _died_ , Siwan pig!”

Bayek draws the hidden blade deep across his throat, and blood flows like water from a broken dam. He shakes. “You will be judged in the Duat,” he whispers, and falls head first into that shadowy place where the water laps at his feet and everything is highlighted in mute gold.

It is black, and there is an omniscient echo humming in the air like that of a vast cavern. The water is cool against Bayek’s skin. He stands a moment, letting the light slowly bleed in. It is empty and never ending. There is nothing but the water and the cold.

“No!”

Bayek turns to the noise. Flavius kneels with his back to him, his hands in his hair and a single string of “No no no no _no!_ ” spilling from him. Bayek takes a step. The disturbance of the water alerts Flavius to his presence. The Lion turns, and the hatred in his eyes is nowhere to be found. There is a deep fear there, and he scrambles back on his hands when Bayek takes the first step towards him.

“Y-you,” Flavius spits with as much venom as he can muster. “What _are you_?”

“I am Medjay,” Bayek says, “I am a husband, and I am father to a murdered son. He was a child, Flavius. _My_ child!”

Flavius laughs softly, and he puffs himself up, looking Bayek in the eye with a cool collectedness. “It’s the one thing I do not regret in my life,” he says with false bravado. “His death gave me the Order, Rome … _Caesar_ bowed to me!”

Bayek bellows and rushes him, grabbing him by the strap of his breastplate. He can do nothing but scream his pain at the Lion, and it spends all of his energy. He falls to his knees, weeping. Between them a single white feather floats on the water’s surface. Bayek wants to kill him, but he can’t do it. Want for the Lion’s death drove him, and now that it is here he cannot deliver what he must. For as much as he hates the Order and wants them to crumble, it is the last thing he has to which he can hold close the memory of Khemu. Walking away from the corpse of the Lion will close the door on that chapter of Bayek’s life, and put him face-to-face with the terrifying prospect of moving forward.

Flavius knows Bayek’s weakness. He rises above him, spitting with laughter. “Come on,” he jeers. “Finish me, you _coward._ ”

Bayek screams at himself. _I can_ _’t do it, I can’t, I can’t do it!_

He flinches when he feels a hand on his shoulder. The fingers are small and light, and he knows that it is his son.

“It’s alright, _papo_ ,” Khemu says. He stands before him, small, and gentle.

“No,” Bayek murmurs, reaching for him. “I will lose you forever.”

“Not forever,” Khemu says. “I will be waiting for you in the Field of Reeds.”

Bayek puts a hand to his own heart and draws it away. His skin is bright with blood, but as he watches the wound is closing, shining with the same gold light of the Orb, and his heartbeat strengthens. Bayek hugs his son, and he doesn’t care that Flavius sees it all. It’s the only farewell he’ll have.

Khemu is the one to pull away. He picks up the feather and touches it to Flavius’ neck. The last thing Bayek sees of that place is the Lion’s flat, dark eyes.

Bayek opens his own, and he kneels above Flavius’ cooling body. He can hear shouts in the distance. He tears himself away, finding the Orb nestled in a corner of the temple. He nearly sits down to hide, but pulls himself up to the open windows with a wall tapestry when the guards start to pound on the door, and sneaks away into the night. He is numb, and he doesn’t make it far. He collapses on one of the Acropolis’ elevated gardens, and falls asleep with the Orb against his chest. The wound Flavius gave to him slowly closes, and when Bayek awakes to the dawn peeking over the hills, all that remains is a white scar. Cyrene is hushed, and the only sounds Bayek can hear of human activity are the calls of Roman officers. He sits upright, his mouth dry as sand. Senu lays next to him, and he strokes her feathers.

“Old girl,” Bayek murmurs. “It is done and I …” He loses the words. He runs his fingers over his chest, and he can feel the slide of metal against his bones. Last night unfolds itself before his eyes, and he whimpers. What can he think? Aya, he needs to find Aya.

The Acropolis is crawling with Roman soldiers, all of them looking for the man who killed Caesar’s general. When Bayek finally sneaks away without detection the same story is unfolding on Cyrene’s streets. The noise he couldn’t hear from the hill is down here as soldiers search houses for any undesirables. Bayek looks at the floor and pulls his hood over his face when he sees people being questioned.

“An Egyptian,” he hears one of Cyrene’s citizens say in Koine. “There was one here yesterday, a man dressed in white, red, and yellow.”

“He had so many weapons!” a child exclaims.

Bayek’s progression through Cyrene is by the shortest route he can find, and with Senu’s help. Bayek has never been able to properly explain the bond they share, less so with the vestiges of the talent he had floundered his way through when he had been a boy. Many days his sight would suddenly be overtaken and he would be flying, killing snakes with his talons, sitting on the highest branches of a tree, and it had terrified him sometimes to tears. He had only begun to understand what it was he could do when he’d been in his early manhood, and he came to a thorough acceptance of it after he had come by Senu as an eaglet from a travelling merchant soon before Khemu’s birth. He can see through her, and there is a weightless freedom he has never known like it. He had first felt it jumping off the rock into Siwa’s oasis at his father’s insistence, and from then on had loved the feeling of free-falling. He’d spent many of his childhood moments when he wasn’t studying under his father’s eye climbing all over the village and the escarpments. With Senu it is a feeling he will always be able to have. She sees where the patrols go, and guides Bayek to safety. He escapes through a farm and then into the open country. The Romans patrol the immediate countryside too, but it’s easier to avoid them in the open space.

He’s not proud of himself when he steals a horse, leaving a pouch of _drachmas_ under the water trough in compensation, and turns the horse’s nose towards Aya and Alexandria. The cuts and abrasions he’d gained in his mad eleven day charge from Siwa to Cyrene, and from the fight, are no longer there. He can’t stop shaking.

He rides along the coast, through Kyrenaika, Marmarcia, and Paraitnion and when he crests the final stretch and sees Alexandria sitting low on the horizon, his tensions ease. Aya is in the first place he looks, in the cavern below the library. Few of the torches on the walls are alight, and the first thing Bayek notices is that many of the scrolls and Aya’s belongings are missing. He doesn’t have much time to think on it though, for Aya runs to him.

“It’s been too long,” she says as she embraces him, kissing his lips.

The smell of her fills his nose, and Bayek breaths it in deep before he pulls away so they may have space between them for words. “Flavius is dead,” he tells her as he cups her face. “Our son’s _ka_ is at peace.”

“May he walk in the Field of Reeds,” Aya murmurs, and she pulls away. She has more to say, and Bayek recognises the drop in her expression to mean she doesn’t look forward to it. “Bayek, I head to Rome —”

“Rome? … You still entertain folly with these ambitions.”

“Aya!”

They look around, and Bayek frowns when he sees the men at the large table spread with maps and documents, a cityscape he doesn’t recognise but takes an educated guess to be Rome. He doesn’t know the men by face, but by garb they are obviously Roman. His hackles rise, and the muscles in his arm tense, ready to release the hidden blade.

“Stop, Bayek. They are friends. This is Brutus, and Cassius,” Aya explains, pointing at them in turn.

“And you must be the famous Medjay,” the one Aya had introduced as Brutus says.

Bayek asks lowly, “Why have you brought them here?

“The Order is no longer an Egyptian problem only,” Aya explains.

Bayek had expected … something else upon his return with the news of Khemu’s rest, and so he joins the table in a soured mood. “Does Cleopatra still rule?”

“Egypt has no ruler,” Aya says bitterly. “Our queen has abandoned us for Rome.”

“But nothing has changed here,” Aya’s mercenary captain Phoxidas says. “Memphis is overrun by the Order. Aya, we need you.”

Aya opens her mouth, looking between Phoxidas and Bayek. Phoxidas and the others leave the cavern with armfuls of scrolls; evidently they expect Aya to follow. Bayek expects her to stay with him, and his stomach knots itself when she follows the others with an apologetic glance to him.

“Aya!” Bayek catches her arm, and he says, “I need to talk to you.”

“I’ll meet you outside,” Aya says to Phoxidas, and the man nods. “You won’t change my mind,” she says to Bayek. “We stumbled upon something bigger than us, and we are the only ones in opposition to it.”

“I know, but … you’re abandoning yourself.”

A muscle in Aya’s jaw twitches, and she says, “We’re no longer who we once were. We never will be again.”

“It doesn’t mean we have to shed our old selves.”

“Bayek, we already have.” She holds his hand in hers, placing their palms against each other. “Once we were parents, once you were Medjay. Now we are killers draped in shadows, fighting for something greater than our son’s _ka_.”

“Nothing is more important than that,” Bayek says, angry.

“You said it yourself — Khemu is at peace, but still the Order lives on. With them in power, how many more people will need to be avenged? We can stop this, but not as us. If we are to become this Brotherhood you speak of, we must commit ourselves in full.”

Bayek grinds his teeth and turns away from her, his fists clenched. He does and doesn’t want to talk to her about it. He knows he has to say something, so he tells her of the Lion.

“Something … something happened, something I cannot explain,” Bayek says. “Only the gods can.” He guides her fingers beneath the cloth of his robe and traces her fingers over the scar there. “I should have died in my attempt to kill Flavius. He drove his sword through my heart. I survived. I healed, and this is all the mark it left on me.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I saw many things I thought were impossible that day. You saw what was below the temple in Siwa, that globe of light, and how it spoke to us. Flavius wielded the same light and turned it into a weapon of the gods, and it came from the Orb.”

“I am glad you live, but you are not Osiris. If you were to have died you would have died.”

“You don’t believe me,” Bayek says.

“People do not come back from the dead. We both know this.” Aya’s fingers close over his. “I believe that something happened to you as you say, but not death, and I am grateful for that.” She kisses his knuckles. “The others wait for me.” Aya leaves.

Bayek’s left not knowing what to do. He puts the Orb in one of the chests of her belongings, and as he closes the lid, he thinks, _I cannot let it end like this._

He shoos the children around his stolen horse away and sends Senu high. She spots Aya and the others headed for the Pharos island, where a boat waits to take them to Phoxidas’ _trireme_. Bayek tears after them along the Heptastadion connecting the city to the island, and finds Aya sitting on the shore, waiting for him. He dismounts the horse, and takes his time to make sure it will stay put. He rubs its nose and brushes its neck with the flat of his palm, all the while watching Aya from the corner of his eye. The sun is touching the ocean when settles next to her. For a while neither of them say anything. The water is stained a deep orange that flashes with bright light.

“Our victories have multiplied,” Bayek says after a while, looking at his interlocked fingers suspended between his knees, “our bond … not so.”

“After this, we could never have been,” Aya says. “Everything we have done, and in the face of what we must keep doing, it has told us our love is impossible.”

“Does it have to be?”

“You were the one who said we must work in the shadows for the people.”

“ _Together_ , Aya. We are stronger _together_.”

“No.” Bayek is dumbfounded, and the way Aya looks at him, the sorrow in her face, it makes his heart drop. “For the people,” she says in little more than a whisper. “What we must do cannot be burdened by us. As people with pasts, with dreams and wants. We, if we are to be tied to this promise to do right by those who deserve it, then we must become that creed, no matter the sacrifice.”

Bayek doesn’t want to understand. He shakes his head, and a litany of “No, no,” comes from him.

 _It_ _’s alright, Papo_ , Khemu says to him, and Bayek falls silent. He takes a calming breath, and lays his hands in his lap, palm up. The eagle’s skull hangs in the space, twisting on its cord.

“We have been too reckless with our public killings,” Aya says after a long while. “If we are to continue, we must kill from the shadows. We kill only those who deserve it, the sick souls who try to control us, but they will never know who we are.”

Bayek holds the skull; Khemu had found it picked clean by other scavengers and had brought it back to show his father; Bayek had fashioned the necklace for him, and now he breaks the cord’s knot and holds it before them both. He lets it fall onto the sand. “If we must become hidden,” he says through a dry mouth, “then it shall be.”

Aya nods. “Yes. We are Hidden Ones.”

* * *

Bayek knows with utter certainty that he had been changed on the night he killed Flavius. He had talked himself into accepting Aya had been right, that what he had thought happened hadn’t, until he had cut himself on accident fletching arrows a few months after they had parted ways on the beach and Bayek had come to Memphis. He had stuck his thumb in his mouth to suck away the blood, bringing it out only when he hadn’t tasted it anymore. He’d expected the cut to have started the process of scabbing over, but it had been … glowing. The gold was the same colour as the Orb’s light, and Bayek had watched in horror as the cut had healed. He’d taken a knife to his flesh later that night where his experiments wouldn’t have been disturbed, and found it didn’t matter how deeply he cut the following time, he healed.

 _Aya_ , he had begun to write. His letter had sat like that for days until he had needed to write to her about something else, and the page had been filled with words he hadn’t originally meant it to have.

Contact with her is minimal, and the first real news of her life Bayek receives is the letter that comes from Rome detailing Aya’s killing of Caesar. It is _Peret Pharmuthi_ the year after Flavius’ death; news of Caesar had reached Memphis a week after it had happened, and Aya’s letter had come a week later. _Amunet_ _’s_ letter _._ Bayek grieves for her again as he clutches the parchment in his fist. He doesn’t know if he can reconcile it when she’s so far away, but he must. News also comes that Cleopatra is still in Rome trying to secure the position of heir for her’s and Caesar’s small son, but Bayek will be surprised if Caesarion will become anything to the Julii household, much less its heir. Caesarion is, after all, only half Roman, and so half a person; rumour too runs that Caesar never claimed Cleopatra’s son as his own either, and that he was written out of the man’s final will. Bayek feels no pity for the queen.

He has spent the last year eradicating the deep roots of the Order in Memphis. His Hidden Ones kill only in the night, leaving people to find their work in the morning with a white heron’s feather laying on the chest of the deceased. They are shadows, and they are whispered of with fear. Bayek has walked amongst the people, Graecian and Egyptian alike, and is pleased with the impressions they have made. The elite shiver when they talk of them, and Bayek makes sure to let them know when he takes a knife with him in the dark that they too will be added to the list of those executed by the Hidden Ones. The orators speak of the Hidden Ones in fear, and proclaim them hateful murderers. Bayek takes comfort in knowing that at least some of the people, the better educated amongst them, know that the orators speak the lies of those who are afraid they will be the next ones killed.

He has a contact in High Priest Pasherenptah, and later in Taimhotep when her husband dies three years after Caesar’s death. Together they gather information of the Order from across Egypt, Memphis becoming their base. Unfortunately the more they carry out their work, the deeper they drive the Order into hiding. Soon only the careless are killed, and whenever whispers of their dark work reach Bayek’s ears, more and more effort is required to hunt them down. In their own way, the Order becomes Hidden Ones themselves, except that in the end, they always are found, and always they die. And it is only a problem that spreads when Cleopatra takes the Roman Mark Antony as a paramour in a lavish showing in Tarsus. It emboldens the Order. Bayek returns to Alexandria when Cleopatra brings Antony back to winter with her.

Years ago, Bayek had found all the best ways to enter the Royal Palace, and is pleased to find those cracks in security are still there. He would have expected Cleopatra to have covered them all once she had declared him and Amunet her enemies. The guards are all of Graecian, Roman, and Macedonian descent, meaning that Bayek’s too dark skin will stand out, and even if they weren’t to recognise him as the queen’s former Medjay, he would be branded Egyptian and removed from the palace by whatever means necessary. Bayek lays low on the rooftops, watching the patrols through Senu’s eyes as he makes his way to the main wing of the palace, where Antony and Cleopatra host one of their many, almost nightly, parties. The group they entertain is called ‘The Inimitable Livers’, and Bayek knows from his informants that many amongst them are loyal to the Order; whether Cleopatra knows this or not Bayek can only guess, but even if she is not officially one of the Order, her sympathies lie with them. The target Bayek seeks tonight is called the Rhino. For nearly fifty years Egypt has been tied to Rome through politics. Cleopatra’s great-grandfather had left partial control of Egypt to Rome within his will, and Cleopatra’s own father, who the people still call Auletes, had left Egypt’s coffers seventeen and a half million _sesterces_ in debt to Rome, much of it to secure his power after being driven from the throne by Cleopatra’s oldest sister twenty years previously. Rome has demanded its pay through coin and food, and the province the Rhino oversees sends close to two million stone of grain to Rome every year. They are slaves to Rome, and the demand for grain will only increase should plans go ahead to fund Antony’s Parthian War to the East with Egyptian gold. It is war waged for little more than ego, for the want to become the next Alexander.

For all of Bayek’s life Rome had had their boots on Egypt’s neck, but their strangulation was only growing stronger. Bayek means to end a part of it tonight; his contacts in Diocles and Praxilla have a successor ready to step into the Rhino’s place upon his death and ease the people of the region.

Flute and string music floats on the night air, and Bayek readies his blade, his eyes only for the guards below him. He drops silently on the first, and the second guard only has the chance to turn to the sound of his comrade’s collapse to the marble before Bayek throws a knife between the gap of his breastplate and gorget. No one else hears; the movement is masked by the revelry of the feast-goers. Bayek drags the bodies into the garden, eyeing the bloody streaks on the white marble. Luckily the torchlight doesn’t reach far enough to highlight the blood. He yanks the knife from the guard’s neck and slips into the hall.

He is met with more decadence than he’s ever seen. The closest thing he’s seen to it was the day Cleopatra came to Memphis in a litter of gold and peacock fans, but this extravagance is private. Bayek spots the queen immediately. There’s a bowl of pearls by her elbow, and he watches as she takes one and drops it delicately into a goblet. She swirls it a moment then takes a sip. Her oldest son Caesarion sits at her side, looking far too solemn for a boy of barely five years. Bayek can’t see the Roman general she’s taken for a lover. He turns his eyes away from the queen and looks for the real reason he’s crouching in the shadows, and finds the man.

The Rhino is a heavyset man, draped in fine linen and with rings on every finger. He is going bald, and his laugh is raucous and carrying. His face is flushed red with wine. Bayek climbs up towards the ceiling and perches on a shelf, watching the Rhino. He soon determines the boy he calls over for refills of his wine, and Bayek makes his way over. He has a poisonous powder in his pocket, and he drops the contents into the pitcher when the servant boy’s eyes are elsewhere, staring unashamedly at the dancing girls at the centre of the room. The poison isn’t a killing one, Bayek doesn’t want to kill with poison tonight, but it’ll cause enough unrest in a man’s stomach that he’ll seek to alleviate himself away from polite company. Soon enough the Rhino calls for more wine, and soon enough, the Rhino begins to change. He excuses himself. Bayek slinks around the room after him, and waits in the adjoining corridor before the latrine, his hood shadowing his face.

The Rhino stops when he sees Bayek, and he falls to his knees. “No, _no_!” Bayek’s hidden blade slides from beneath his hand. “You can’t kill me, the people need me. Without me they would suffer.”

“They already suffer. I have seen them with my own eyes,” Bayek says. “Whilst you make them sow their crops with their blood I have watched, hidden, planning. You may think in your twisted way you help them by placing them under your so-called civilised Roman rule, but it is not civilised to them. What you seek is conformity; a terrible thing.” Bayek punches the hidden blade through the Rhino’s toga, and cradles his head as the man dies.

“You don’t understand,” the Rhino says in the space between their heartbeats. “Egypt is dying; it’s been dying since Alexander was crowned Pharaoh. We can help save it.”

“By making it part of your empire,” Bayek says, disgusted. “That is not saving.”

“Who are you to judge?” the Rhino sneers. “You may think yourself noble, but to me you’re a villain. A nothing who doesn’t understand what his actions mean in the longer term. You think small. People may suffer now, but without pain, without sacrifice, what will the future bring but misery? You cannot eat grain straight from the husk, but must put the work in to have it become bread. Mark my words: my support withdrawn from Mark Antony and Queen Cleopatra will weaken them, and then who will be left to stop the beast that is the empire from swallowing Egypt whole? At least I die knowing that in the end, it will be me who is laughing.”

Bayek moves the Rhino’s body to the main doors, folding his hands across his chest much like the priests do in preparation for mummification, and places a feather atop. He waits for the first of the guests to leave, and their screams summon Cleopatra and Antony. Antony is a man who was obviously once powerful, and Bayek can understand why Rome’s people love him so much for his military exploits. Now he is going to fat, his face red with wine. “By the gods,” he spits when he sees the body, but Bayek’s eyes are for Cleopatra. Her gaze is fixed on the feather, and she picks it up with trembling fingers.

“Guards!” she barks. “Search the grounds from top to bottom! This was the work of that Medjay, I know it. _Find him!_ ”

 _Ah_ , Bayek thinks as he slips away. _Amunet, I finally understand what you meant by Aya_ _’s death._

The next letter he sends to her he signs as Amun.

* * *

Tahira calls him to the Sinai Peninsula for help. The Hidden Ones have become entangled in a rebellion in the region, and are struggling both to survive and to offer their aid to the rebels and civilians alike. Bayek arrives at the Sinai bureau and meets with Tahira and a man she introduces as Gamilat, the leader of the rebels.

Bayek listens to both of their stories, and they agree that they need to drive Roman influence out of the area. It seems an impossible task; Rome has dominance over the Mediterranean, and even if they are successful, the Siani was too precious a position to let go. With Cleopatra in power it makes it all the harder, especially when having Roman influence in the area benefits Mark Antony. At least Bayek can make it hurt. “The Hidden Ones have no place in battles,” he explains. “But we can help the rebellion by eliminating the Roman leader.”

“General Rufio,” Gamilat says at once. “But he is in Rome.”

“Rufio has three lieutenants here in the Sinai,” Tahira says.

“Then these three men will die,” Bayek says.

And they get to it. Bayek’s first move is to restore control around the bureau to the Hidden Ones, rescuing many from Roman hands and freeing local mines from Roman influence. Soon the rebellion overwhelms the nearby Roman camp, and within the week they have carved out the immediate area, and killed the first of Rufio’s lieutenants, a man called Tacito. Bayek discovers upon drivng his hidden blade into the Roman’s neck that he belongs to the Order, and they had called him the Executioner.

“The Order is eternal!” Tacito had screamed in the dark place of their minds.

The workers of the quarry wrestle control of the camp by the time night falls. Bayek’s pleased with the work.

“I am indebted to you,” Gamilat says, putting a hand over his heart.

“We do this for the people,” Bayek tells him.

“Yes. We are one and the same.”

The next to die is a commander called Ampelius, the Administrator. Bayek finds him in a city called the Walls of the Ruler, dressed in a wolf’s cloak, and kills him too. The last is called Ptahmose, not a Roman like the others, but a local. He is called the Mason, and he is tearing down monuments to Egyptian gods for Roman coin. Bayek is infuriated, and he takes the Mason’s life with something like vengeance. By then weeks have passed, and news comes that Rufio has left Rome to make his way here.

Bayek is in the bureau when this news comes, and he smiles. It’s an unexpected turn, and one that’s not unwelcome. The victory only lasts a few hours. Bayek is talking to Tahira when one of the Hidden Ones drops through the bureau roof, coughing violently.

“Kashta!” Tahira calls.

“Run,” Kashta shouts. “Fire!”

He doesn’t finish the word before a firebomb falls through the roof. Bayek tackles Kashta out of the way, gasping as the fire licks his side. Tahira helps them up before turning for the hidden exit, but the fire has taken a hold quickly. More bombs must have been flung onto the roof. Tahira disappears beneath a blazing beam, and Bayek lifts it from her, ignoring how his flesh burns. Kashta drags her out. Bayek chokes on the smoke, and he cries out as something stabs him deep in the leg. “Tahira,” he coughs, then flinches back as bright sunlight breaks over his face. He barely has a moment to realise that Roman soldiers stand above him, and the last thing he sees in the burning hideout is the pommel of a _gladius_ aimed at his head.

His next memories are of screaming, and the chink of a hammer and pain in his wrists and feet. The hot sun burns on him as he is hoisted high. Blood soaks his naked skin. His tongue is dry and rough in his mouth, and he is suffering. He passes out for a moment, or perhaps he sleeps. When he wakes night has fallen, and he can feel the finger-thick iron nails driven into his flesh, and his arms stretched either side like the men he has seen on the roads crucified and waiting to die. The day rolls around again, and Bayek can’t breathe properly. His breath rattles, and the sun is unrelenting. He is one of many on the hilltop; he guesses there to be at least a dozen, but he cannot find any of his Hidden Ones. For that he is relieved.

“Ha! The vultures will have their meal today!”

Bayek is roused from his stupor at the sound. He groans when he feels the iron spikes again. He winces when a spearhead jabs into his side, and he tries to turn away from it when it cuts him on the ribs. Blood runs down his side, and Bayek bucks his head, summoning the strength to look and see what it is. There’s a Roman standing below him, a second one who wears the badges of an _optio_ to Bayek’s surprise a little distance away sitting on a stool under an umbrella held by a Nubian slave boy. He didn’t think his crucifixion worthy of anyone but the common legionnaires.

He lifts his head and sneers at the legionnaire. “Ey … I will kill you all.”

The legionnaire with the spear laughs; it catches the attention of the _optio_. The _optio_ stands and saunters over with his hands behind his back. “Careful,” he rebukes. “You’ll have him dead before his time.”

Bayek is now the one to spit with laughter, and he bares his teeth at the soldiers in a savage grin. He isn’t dead, he _won_ _’t_ die, and it’s the most hilarious thing in the world. The Romans look at each other, and if they think him either strange or losing his mind, it hardly matters. “You cannot kill me!” Bayek bellows. “I’ve died before and I’m still here! Strike me. _Strike me!_ ”

“Is that so? Leave him,” the _optio_ says. “The heat is getting to him.” He addresses Bayek. “You’ll die like the others, it’s only a matter of time.”

“You think?” Bayek wheezes. “Come. _Try._ ”

Then the _optio_ falls with a knife high in his back. The legionnaire yells before he too is silenced with a blade drawn across his throat.

Bayek licks his lips. “Amunet.”

The slave boy stands behind her, shivering. Amunet has changed since Bayek last saw her. Of course she is older, four years have passed, but she looks different in more ways than that now. Her garb is not the homespun cloth she had worn in the style of the Medjay, but one more suited for higher social circles, darker and more intimidating. Gold glitters in her hair and edges her clothes, and like him, she is now missing her left ring finger.

“Amun —” She whistles, and two Hidden Ones Bayek has never seen before dart from the cover of the rocks. Surrounding them the few others on the crosses start making a racket. Amunet’s acolytes start digging at the base of Bayek’s cross with trowels, and they soon have him flat on his back. Bayek shouts as the nails are taken from the wood and his flesh. Amunet says, “Hurry. Bring him quickly before more soldiers arrive!”

“What of the others here?” one of the acolytes whispers.

“I know them; rapists, thieves, and murderers. They deserve their fates.”

Bayek can’t make it far. Luckily Amunet has horses waiting for them a little ways on, concealed behind a bend in the rock. Bayek wraps his arms around Amunet’s waist, and he can’t help but think of the scent of her. She smells the same as Aya, and his eyes flutter closed.

“Stay awake!” Amunet’s shouting at him. “Amun! _Bayek!_ ”

 _It doesn_ _’t matter_ , Bayek thinks. _I can_ _’t … die._

He wakes wrapped in blankets and staring at the wall of a cave. He can hear the crackle of a campfire not far from him, and as soon as he twitches, Amunet’s hand is pressed to his forehead. “Steady,” she says in a low voice. “Don’t move; you’ve lost a lot of water.”

Bayek does feel light-headed, and he reaches for something to grasp, some kind of bowl or container. Amunet hands him a skin, and Bayek drinks deeply. His wrists are heavily bandaged, the linen soaked in blood. They don’t hurt.

“I saw what happened to the bureau,” Amunet says; Bayek doesn’t miss how shaky her voice is. “Even in Rome we had heard of the Hidden Ones here.”

Bayek doesn’t need her lectures now. “Have you … found … the others?” he croaks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Dead,” Amunet says bitterly. “There are only two survivors. Tahira and Kashta are being held at a place called Fort Clostra.”

Bayek knows the fort, and he nods. “We need to go there. Now.” He groans as he sits up, and Amunet puts her hands on his chest, trying to push him back down. “I am fine,” Bayek says.

“No you’re not. No man can walk away from that. You were almost dead when I found you.”

Bayek pulls the linen from his wrists, and Amunet stops dead when she sees that there is nothing wrong with them. Bayek doesn’t look at them, or at her. “I told you of this thing,” he says, clipped.

Amunet slumps back to her sitting position. She says in little more than a whisper, “Tell me again what happened that night.”

And so Bayek does, this time in detail. Their conversation is held in hushed voices, careful that no one else hears them. Bayek watches the cave mouth with Senu’s eyes as he and Amunet talk. He tells her of Flavius and what he had done, he tells her of what was said, and how Bayek had woken the next morning without so much as a scratch. He tells her of his experiments once he realised the phenomenon had repeated itself, and he tells her of the raid on the bureau.

He hasn’t seen Amunet look so scared for a long time. She wraps her hands around his wrists, and Bayek can feel how she trembles. “I … This is impossible.”

“I know,” Bayek says, and touches her face. “I can’t think of it now. We need to rescue the others.”

They agree to a plan. Bayek will be the one to go into the fort. It’s too heavily guarded for the risk of two of them, and Bayek argues that if he should be discovered, then they won’t be able to do anything to him. It doesn’t matter in the end. He finds Kashta shaken but relatively unhurt; he follows Bayek silently. Tahira … Bayek kills the guards outside her tent, and beyond the tent he can hear some arrogant Roman discussing how he plans to next torment Tahira. He can’t stand it. Tahira is covered in burns, and Bayek can tell at once that the wounds have been agitated. They still bleed even though the fire was days ago, pus lines the flesh, and knife cuts have dug deep everywhere.

“Tahira,” he breathes.

Tahira jerks. “Ba … yek …?” She’s so weak Bayek’s afraid of touching her. It takes both him and Kashta to get Tahira out. Kashta kills guards in their path as Bayek stays with Tahira, begging her to hold on. They’re not out a moment too soon. Bayek is mounting the horses Amunet had waiting for them when the first alarms go up, and they tear off down the road. They arrive back at the cave within minutes.

“Water!” Bayek bellows. “Get the wounds clean!” The acolytes scramble to obey.

Bayek grips Tahira’s hand, talking to her endlessly as the day turns into night. His voice is hoarse by then, and Tahira’s breaths are laboured. The others have retreated to the far side of the cave, one of Amunet’s acolytes cleaning Kashta’s wounds with wine. Tahira’s condition doesn’t improve despite the treatment.

“She won’t make it,” Amunet says to Bayek after a long time. Bayek can’t let himself believe that.

“Tahira,” he calls softly.

Tahira shifts on the bedding, and her voice when she speaks is the weakest thing Bayek’s ever heard. “I let you down.”

“You let no one down,” Bayek assures her, taking her hand. “You are as loyal as a mountain. You are the first oath-taker, saviour to many, and a Hidden One.”

Tahira shivers with a smile. “Don’t let our Creed fade.” She squeezes his fingers, and falls still. Amunet lifts her head and murmurs a prayer of passing.

Bayek shakes his head. “No,” he says to Amunet. “Maybe … maybe she will be like me.”

For a long time, Bayek kneels over her, straining for any sign of life. “Tahira,” he says, “please. Please….” She doesn’t wake, and when the night passes and then comes around once more to day without change from Tahira, Bayek lets her hand go and weeps.

* * *

Despite all of the security, despite docking far away from shore, and despite the eyes of a thousand legionnaires, Bayek kills Rufio the following night. He feels vindication, victory, but it all turns sour in his mouth when he greets Amunet back on the shores of Arsinoe, her skin coated with ash from the village of Rufio’s last attack, and reveals that the attack was not instigated by the Leader, but by Gamilat. The betrayal crushes Bayek. He tries to deny it and find fault in Amunet’s reasoning, but when they ride back to the rebel camp it makes more and more sense to Bayek. Gamilat had always talked of martyrs to the cause. They agree to kill him. However, when they enter the camp, Gamilat is not there; the rebels say he’s left to go hunting.

The drowned quarry Bayek tracks Gamilat to is lined with abandoned ballistae, and when Bayek’s confrontation dissolves into an argument and then into a battle, Gamilat manages to take control of one of them. Bayek has always been able to know when to avoid weapons coming for him. He doesn’t know how, but it’s like a sense in the back of his mind telling him when to move, when to hold back and stay still, and when he listens to it, it saves him from harm’s way. Such a thing happens with the bolts. Bayek knows when Gamilat is ready to shoot him. He huddles behind cover, an arrow nocked in his bow, and baiting Gamilat’s early shots so he may strike back when the man reloads. Senu screams above Gamilat’s head, but with his spiked shield held high, Senu’s efforts can’t amount to much. Bayek gains flashes of insight from her too, knowing where Gamilat faces, where he can strike.

“Gamilat!” Bayek bellows.

“What, have you come to your senses?” Gamilat sneers, and Bayek throws himself from behind the wall he’d hidden behind, a barbed arrowhead aimed at Gamilat’s heart. He realises too late that Gamilat had been waiting for him, and it’s the ballista that will hit first. Gamilat’s bolt aims true, and Bayek is struck through the chest. The bolt explodes from his back. Bayek opens his mouth in a reflexive scream, but his lungs have sprayed onto the wood below him along with shards of bone and chunks of meat. The force of it drags him off the dock, and the last thing he sees is the moonlight shimmering through the water as he sinks.

The next thing he’s aware of is the red stain of dawn above him, and Amunet’s presence. Bayek reaches for her wrist, and Amunet’s head snaps up. “ _Bayek?_ ” She sounds disbelieving, and when Bayek nods, she’s atop him, kissing him in assurance. Bayek holds her, kissing her back, but his mind spins. He _died_ , again, and once more he has made an impossible recovery. He can still feel how his body shattered, it feels like it just happened, but time has passed, a few hours at least. The mere memory of it makes him retch. They’re on the shore of the quarry, he can hear the water lapping at the stone not far off, and nearby is a wooden ballista shot.

He turns his face away from Amunet after a moment, and she gives him space. He slumps in the mud, staring at nothing and shivering, trapped in the moment and reliving it over and over. He doesn’t know how long he lies there.

“Amunet,” Bayek whispers. “What’s happened to me …?”

“I don’t know. Dear gods, Bayek. I saw the blood in the water, and I found you at the bottom, speared through. I pulled you to shore and took the bolt out. I was trying to find what to say to the others …”

“Tell them nothing. Where’s Gamilat?”

“Back at his camp. When I saw him slink back and you didn’t return, that was when I went looking for you.”

Most likely he would still be there, then. If not, it was only a matter of time before they found him. Bayek nods, and he stands. His legs shake like a newborn foal’s. “He must die.”

As they stumble up the road, Bayek breathes deeply in and out, reassuring himself he’s alive. If a ballista cannot kill him … _Anubis, why do you refuse to take me?_

They hide in the rocks as they wait for sun to rise higher, thinking of a plan. “Engaging him head-on was a mistake,” Bayek says. “That damned shield …”

“Then we do what we do best,” Amunet says. “We strike swiftly, and silently.”

“No. If we kill Gamilat without word, he will become a martyr of the worst kind. Maybe it will inspire others to be worse than him, and they hunt us for revenge. We expose him for what he is. If he is their god, then we kill that image.”

“It is a good plan,” Amunet agrees. “So, how do you propose we expose him?”

“I will walk through the front gate and tell him so,” Bayek says, and it’s exactly what he does. He removes his linen shirt, more questions would be asked than he likes about the hole driven through both sides of it, though his remaining clothes are still drenched in his blood. He walks up to the gates of the camp, shivering with rage and breathing like a bull through his teeth. The guards are so startled they let him pass without comment. Bayek draws a crowd the further he walks, and plants his feet outside Gamilat’s tent. Once again, he bellows the rebel leader’s name in challenge.

Gamilat leaves the tent and stops dead. “Bayek!” he says, forcing a smile to his face; his eyes are swimming with panic and confusion. “I was just asking after you! I want to congratulate —”

“You tried to kill me,” Bayek rasps, “because I discovered your secret. How you kill innocents to spark riots for your cause. Entire villages slaughtered by your men to provide an excuse to pick fights with the Romans and recruit to your cause. These are not the actions of a leader, but of a user. These are the actions of the very people we have been fighting _against_.” Bayek spreads his arms wide and says lowly, “If you wish to kill me, next time be sure to finish the job.”

Gamilat’s face slackens, and he opens his mouth to perhaps scream an order, but Amunet strikes. An arrow sprouts from Gamilat’s throat, and the rebel leader topples. People whip in the direction of the shot. Amunet stands with her back to the sun, hidden by the shadows it casts across her face so she is only a figure shrouded in the depths of a hood, her sash a splash of red against the sky like blood in water. Bayek’s eyes shutter, and he says to the rebels, “Fight for what is right, but those who have no place in the fight should never be harmed. They are innocents.”

With Gamilat dead and the Order driven out of the Sinai, the Hidden Ones are forgotten for now. Bayek makes sure everything will be left in order before he leaves, desperate for answers. In his hunt for Khemu’s killers, he’d come across many strange and fantastical things in Egypt, but what he seeks now lies toward Upper Egypt. When his wounds heal they glow gold, and it’s a gold he’s seen in only two other places. Within the Orb, and within the echoing spaces buried and forgotten to time. The more he thinks about it, the more certain he is these places, the Orb, and the vault below Siwa are all connected in some way. Before he hadn’t wanted to seek them, they had meant nothing to him and were best left to the gods. The gods, however, have not let him be.

The people call the tomb Seth-Anat, but Bayek has walked further within it, and it had whispered to him a name that made him shiver: Qeneb.too Kah'Aiye. _Subjugate them, bend to our will._ He travels for weeks, trading his horse for a camel more suited to the sands and packing its saddlebags full of supplies. The tomb lies a week and a half from Krokodilopolis, and two days from the nearest village. Bayek had found remnants of buildings when he had first descended into the tomb ten years previously, but the foundations had been so old as to mean nothing, merely outlines of stones in the sand. The shade the tomb’s gorge-like walls cast are a blessed relief from the sun. Bayek dismounts the camel and lets it roam free; it won’t go anywhere. He strikes a spark to a torch and steps into the largest area of the tomb, hating how the world seems to hold its breath when he does. He hates this place; it makes his skin itch. His footsteps echo forever against the walls, and he casts his eyes down from the ancient treasures and mummified bodies that are in the space. His focus is on a single black stone pillar at the end of the main chamber. He can see it displace the air around it like with heat.

When Bayek reaches it he puts the torch on the floor and reaches for the pillar with both hands. He can feel the air thrumming, as if it’s waiting for him to act. His very self wars against placing his hands on the stone. He pushes through and slaps the pillar. Immediately it erupts, and Bayek cries out, screwing his eyes shut as it bursts with light.

 _Y u ar ot ean to e he e yet, Bay k of Siwa_.

Bayek lifts his head when he hears his name. The voice that said it was female, and it echoes in a way Bayek can’t describe; it’s like a dream, syllables stuttering too fast for the human tongue to mimic and … it sounds alien. Unnatural.

“I was killed,” Bayek says. “Three times now, voice, and yet I am not dead. It is not natural, and these places, this Orb that has brought me so much sorrow, they too are unnatural.”

_We created both these places and the Piece of Eden you have recovered._

“ ‘Piece of Eden’?” Bayek mutters. He has heard of a place called Eden from the Jewish preachers in Alexandria. “Is that why I still breathe?”

 _No. You will not be created by any Piece of Eden_.

“Created? What do you mean, ‘created’? Did you do this, eh? Why can I not die? Why!”

 _You are not ready_ , the voice says. _Not yet._

“Then when will I be?” Bayek demands. “I have gone through _shit_ in more ways than anyone could imagine, and you do not deem me ready?!”

_There will be a preordained time when you will have the answers you wish. It is not now._

“When. Will it. _Be?_ ”

There’s no response. Bayek curses loudly, spitting at the ceiling and kicking up the sand at his feet. “ _Nek_ , answer me!” The silence stretches on. Bayek stays for three days, slamming his hands onto the pillar and digging his nails into the carved lines of the walls that glow with godly power until his fingers and raw and bleeding, anything to try and provoke a response from the voice. Nothing comes. The only time Bayek had left before then was to retrieve the camel and tie it up close by. He doesn’t clean the shit it has left on the floor when he finally leaves, and hopes it shits more on the way out.

He’s halfway back to Krokodilopolis and resupplying at a small village on the Nile when he hears about a curse plaguing Thebes. The man who Bayek finds to get more information speaks of restless Pharaohs. Bayek sucks in a breath. If they are Pharaohs who cannot be killed … He trades passage to Thebes with the camel. When he arrives he is confronted with the curse he was told of. The Pharaoh glows like Bayek’s wounds and like the tomb walls, and when he attacks and defeats her, he asks after a ‘Piece of Eden’. He’s met with confused looks. Eventually he’s directed towards a woman who trades in black market goods, who then points him to a trading ground, and the slaughter at the site takes him to the survivors of it at the Temple of Hatshepsut. He meets a boy named Sutekh, and the first striking thing about him is not the burn scar stretched across his left cheek, but the red of his hair; Bayek had only seen the likes of it from people with Gaelic blood.

“You stole an artefact from a tomb,” Bayek accuses him.

“No! My _neket_ uncle —”

“Give it to me.”

Sutekh is young, barely out of his boyhood. When Bayek presses enough Sutekh gives him the stolen artefact; Bayek’s disappointed it isn’t what he’s looking for. It’s not an Orb, but a golden scarab. It’s a priceless treasure to an ordinary man, but to Bayek it’s next to worthless. He wants to throw it against the wall in frustration. “If you return it then Nefertiti will rest,” Sutekh says. Bayek does, and in doing so he finally catches a glimpse of what he’s searching for. His first suspicions were right — it’s an Orb like the one from Siwa. Next he goes to the only place he can think: the House of Amun, and the God Wife who resides there in his name.

Her name is Isidora, and after a few heated disagreements, they begin working together. Soon they come to an agreement that whatever is causing this curse, it is not the gods as so many people believe, but something more. Isidora calls it the Aten that the Heretic King Akhenaten held in story, and it’s what Bayek begins to call it in his head. As Isidora talks, giving him information and leads, he can’t shake the feeling something is wrong. Unfortunately he can’t afford the time to unravel what it is, for the curse of the Aten is relentless. Bayek works tirelessly. First his goal was to find answers to his own curse, and then his only want is to help the people of Thebes. He sees more terrible things in the process. His paths take him into the very tombs of the Pharaohs themselves, and he whispers for forgiveness, sick and horrified for trespassing. He thinks of Khensa laughing at him so long ago when they had been little more than children about his unease entering tombs, and regret for what had happened washes over him again.

The work of the Aten brings visions like it had in the Lion’s hands, and Bayek finds himself treading in the halls of places he was beginning to think he would never see. Beautiful Aaru, Am-Tuat’s visions of the underworld, the sombre ceremonies of Heb-Sed, and the shadows of the Duat. When he returns between these visions to Isidora and tells her of them, her eyes widen.

“You have seen the Land of the Dead, yet still live?”

He thinks of Flavius, and suppresses the urge to touch his heart. “No,” he says without looking at the priestess. “It was a trick of the mind. I walked through the Field of Reeds, felt the breeze against my skin, but I was never there … I doubt I ever will be.”

“ _Never_ doubt it. I do not need to know what you’ve done to know there is a way. I will help you find it.”

Bayek changes the subject towards the Aten before Isidora can say anything more.

He can feel he is close. His next clue points him towards a necropolis a little ways south of Thebes, and there he uncovers the final missing piece of what has been happening, what had made him feel so uneasy. It had been Isidora’s attitude, and everything suddenly makes awful, terrible sense when Bayek discovers the way the Aten fell into the priestess’s hands as a child. They had been opposites, it seems. Bayek had watched his son die, and Isidora had watched her mother murdered. Both of their hearts had long bled with the pain of it. Isidora’s pain, however, is for everyone and everything, and the phantoms she summons harm regardless of innocence. Her vendetta, he realises with a sickness to his stomach, she has justified with the gods’ will.

 _I have to kill her_ , Bayek realises. He thinks it as bandits still warm with life lay at his feet, their blood soaking into the limestone. _Gods forgive me._

Isidora is waiting for him in the Valley of the Kings, her expression hard, and the Aten held in her hand. He finds her using its power like the Lion had once used it on the people of the Green Mountains. Bayek smells the flesh of the burning as they walk into roaring bonfires, and feels once more helplessness when he can’t push them away. The people surrounding her huddle beneath her shadow. They reach for the hem of her gown, and turn their eyes away when she passes over them with the Aten.

“Bayek,” she says in greeting, not turning around.

“Give me the Aten,” he says, low. “And I will not kill you.”

Isidora looks at him, cradling the Aten in both hands. “My mother told me this is our role as God’s Wife. To restore Ma’at and put Amun back on his throne. _This_ is why I was born. This is why I had to watch as they slit her throat. So I would have the strength to do Amun’s will.”

“This is not _strength_! This is savagery!” Bayek releases his blade. The Aten flares as Isidora raises it, her eyes reflecting the gold of its light. It bursts with power, and Bayek throws his arms up. It passes him. He charges through as Isidora shouts, “No! Why does it not work?” The people she has enslaved, however, do react. Bayek has to fight through them, pushing them from him as they throw their bodies in his way. They claw at his face, his eyes, they punch him and kick and hit him, and all of it they do without making so much as a grunt. Bayek flinches as sharp nails slice across his cheek; he elbows the woman away.

Isidora stands with her feet planted wide. “Pharaohs!” she shouts as Bayek fights off the last of the people enslaved by the Aten’s will. “I beseech! Come to m—!”

Bayek stabs her, and he takes her gently into the shadowy place of his mind. “This must end, Isidora,” he says. “You betrayed Amun, our people, your duty. I will not betray mine.”

Isidora puts her hand to her side. It comes away red with blood. “No … Amun _chose_ you! I do not understand … this was my birthright, my … my revenge. Why did he give me the power to finish what Mother started, only for me to fail?” Isidora looks around in fear when a feather falls before her, and she backs away, then falls. “No! My heart is too heavy! Bayek, will Amun protect me?” Her trembling gazes switches to Bayek’s face and the healing wounds upon it. She whispers, “You are … are … the living ankh … How …?”

Bayek kneels beside her and touches her with the feather. “I told you,” he murmurs, “I will never walk the Field of Reeds. But you … Amun will forgive you.”

Isidora dies with fear in her heart, for both him and for her journey to her afterlife. Bayek kneels over her body in the tomb of the boy king, and takes her into his arms. He’ll deliver her back to the temple. Before he leaves Thebes, he seeks out Sutekh.

Bayek finds the young man in the Valley. He’s not hard to miss with the red of his hair. He looks at Bayek not with the wariness he has in the past, but a respect. “It’s over,” he says.

“Yes. It was not a curse of the risen dead that plagued you,” Bayek says, “but a collective madness. I have seen the likes of it before, many years ago. It was the work of the artefact I spoke of.”

“How, though?”

“I don’t know. I intend to find out.” Bayek takes the Aten from his bag and presents it to Sutekh, who backs away. “You have seen the horrors it brings, so take it, hide it,” Bayek says.

Sutekh’s brows furrow. “Neb?”

“Hide it.”

Sutekh takes the Aten. He holds it like it’s made of rotted flesh. “Hide it how?”

“That is for you to decide,” Bayek says. “Bury it, and all memory of it.”

Bayek hopes against all hope that the boy managed to do so when he finds him dead in the desert a week later, snakes slithering over his body. Bayek buries him in the sand as the common people did with the dead they could not afford to mummify and, perhaps foolishly, promises he will not look for the Aten. If it reemerges, he will find it, but if it is hidden, he will not disturb it.

* * *

Eight years later, Bayek has returned to Alexandria. He clutches a letter in his fist from Amunet, requesting he come urgently. He waits at Alexandria’s eastern docks for Amunet’s boat, and watches the bay with Senu’s eyes. He waits for four hours before Senu spots the reed boat gliding silently through the water, and Bayek waves Amunet over. He doesn’t know the man who steers the boat; his eyes are only on Amunet who sits near the bow, and hers are on him.

“Octavian is coming,” he says as Amunet disembarks.

Amunet grunts in confirmation. “It was difficult to get here. Are there patrols?”

“We are alone,” Bayek confirms. He has ten acolytes working to keep the docks clear by whatever means so long as blood is not drawn, and so far they have been successful. Nevertheless, they should leave quickly. Amunet nods to the boatman who pushes off from the dock and disappears into the dark, and the two of them sneak away. “Phanos is waiting for us,” Bayek says. Amunet’s house had been claimed nearly fifteen years ago by Cleopatra’s forces after the Battle of the Nile, and so they return to the underground cavern she had called home for months. As Bayek had promised, Phanos is waiting.

“Aya!” he exclaims. “No, no, I apologise — _Amunet_.”

“Relax, cousin,” Amunet says. She smiles and says, “I am happy to see you.” They hug each other, Bayek standing to the side and watching.

“Why have you returned?” Bayek asks once Amunet and Phanos have released each other.

“I mean to kill the queen,” Amunet says.

Phanos splutters. “ _Kill_ her?” he asks. “Surely … But —”

“I have already killed one god,” Amunet says. “A second will not be a problem.”

“And what of Octavian?” Bayek asks lowly. “He is of the Order. He will take Egypt with Cleopatra’s death, and then what? Power will become consolidated to Caesar and so the Order once again. Amunet,” Bayek implores, “please, cease action for a few days, and we’ll figure out what to do. How to make certain that the world’s most powerful empires do not merge into an unstoppable, insatiable beast.”

“Bayek,” Amunet says softly. She hasn’t called him Bayek for years, only ‘Amun’. He’s never taken to the name like she had to hers, and he feels disconnected at times from it. She knows this, and bringing him back with it catches his attention. She lays a hand on his chest. “It doesn’t matter what we do. Egypt and Rome will merge; it was only a matter of time. Like this, if Cleopatra dies, then at least we can control the outcome better than if two of the Order were at its head. In the face of bad decisions, this is the best that we can do.”

Bayek puts his hand on Amunet’s shoulder in reciprocation, and he hangs his head. So, this is it. Awful images fill his mind, of the people up and down the Nile being born and raised with Roman gods and Latin in their ears, revelling in Roman entertainment and losing the identities they should have held to all their lives. It breaks his heart. He bares his teeth and says hoarsely, “What would happen if the pharaoh lives?”

“More war. More death. And not for something better, but for power, and so one of them may continue to try and kill the other. One of them will die eventually, but if they die now, then we save tens of thousands of lives. We go to the heart of the matter instead of standing and watching the inevitable.”

Bayek hates it, but Amunet’s right. And so they sit around the table and a single lamp to plot how to kill Egypt’s last pharaoh.

Amunet goes alone. Bayek sits on the roof of the palace with his bow in hand, watching the harbour. The ships come soon enough, and they dock. Legionnaires spill from the _triremes_. Octavian is easy to spot with Senu’s eyes. He doesn’t lead his men like Julius Caesar had, but stays back. A wary man. Senu circles his head, and Bayek thinks how easy it would be for Senu to pluck his eyes out before anyone realised what was happening. He is still deeply unhappy with Amunet’s plan. She may have been the more politically aware of the two of them, but Bayek’s heart is still Medjay, no matter his resolves. His duty is to protect Egypt, and this … this is driving a spear into its heart.

Amunet reappears just as Octavian’s men start hammering at the front gates. Bayek’s eyes widen when he sees Amunet’s not alone. She has someone slung over her shoulders, and Bayek drops to the ground. “What —?” It’s Cleopatra’s son, Ptolemy XV; Little Caesar the people call him. Of her other three children, Ptolemy Helios, Ptolemy Philadelphus, and Cleopatra Selene, there’s no sign. “What are you doing with him?”

“Amun,” Amunet barks, and Senu screeches a warning as legionnaires round the corner and find them standing in the open. Bayek shoots them, aiming for the weak joints in their armour. The Romans call out and hunker down after two of them fall. Many of his arrows are stopped by their shields, but the point isn’t to kill. Bayek’s just buying time for Amunet to escape, and once Senu sees them gone, Bayek follows. He ducks beneath two arrows that come swiftly from the dark, and leaps up the outer wall to the palace then drops over to the water.

“Is Cleopatra dead?” Bayek asks her a little while later. They’re on the outskirts of Alexandria, and Caesarion is beginning to stir.

Amunet says, “Yes.”

Bayek feels nothing; his head and his heart war with each other so much on this point they leave him numb. Egypt is dead with this, but the woman who betrayed Bayek and Aya, a sympathiser to the Order of the Ancients, their sworn enemies, is dead too. He looks away from Amunet and asks again, “What are you doing with the boy?”

“It is a long story and I will explain it when we are away from here.”

They have a reed boat waiting for them further away from the city, Phanos had seen to it. They ride in silence. They leave Alexandria behind until its fires are swallowed by the night, and keep riding into the region of Kanopos Nome until the dawn breaks. By then Bayek can see the little lighthouse standing on the Nile, and Phanos waving at them. Phoxidas is also there, as well as two of Amunet’s Hidden Ones from Rome. Bayek pulls up and tosses the reins over the horse’s head. He’s distressed, and Amunet knows it. Bayek can’t stop moving. He paces, he runs his hands through the short bristles of his hair. He clenches and unclenches his jaw. Caeserion had woken on the ride, and now he sits ridged, his eyes shifting between Bayek and Amunet constantly.

Bayek says, “What about him?”

“The queen entrusted his life to me,” Amunet says. “Now that she’s dead Octavian will hunt him forever.”

Bayek almost says, _Good._ Instead he says darkly, “So you protect the son of the woman who could not protect ours.”

Amunet’s eyes flash, and she says, “This isn’t about that.”

It’s not. Bayek knows it, it’s about the Hidden Ones and their war, it’s about Egypt. But that’s the problem: Egypt. It’s consuming him, tearing his mind apart. Killing Cleopatra, the last Pharaoh, and now that Caesarion is here and the little princes and princess are in Roman hands, it’s over. Dynasties of pharaohs, thousands of years of kingdoms and empires, all of it has culminated into this moment decided by a less than a half dozen. Bayek can barely see. He turns his back on Amunet and stumbles to the bank. He doesn’t so much as sit but fall. He digs his fingers into the silt. What have they done?

He doesn’t want to look at Amunet. She must know it, because the sun’s almost cleared the horizon when Phanos comes over.

“Amun?”

Bayek doesn’t react. He doesn’t want the mantle of Amun anymore, but he has to bear it. He’d said it himself — he was not a husband, not a father, and he was not a Medjay. Not anymore. He can’t …

“I am coming,” he says eventually.

Amunet has a bruise forming on her cheek, and Caesarion’s hands are lashed together with rope. His face is wet with tears, his shoulders slumped with defeat. A thin keen comes from his lips, and one of the Hidden Ones crouches by him, offering a waterskin. Caesarion turns his face away. Bayek’s hand hovers over Amunet’s bruise. Amunet brushes his concern off.

“I need to leave,” she says curtly.

Bayek nods. This is really it. Amunet puts her hand over Bayek’s heart, and the Lion’s scar underneath it. “I can’t stop thinking about it, Amun. Senu should be dead.”

Bayek’s blood surges at the mere suggestion of Senu’s death, but then he realises Amunet’s right. It was rare for eagles to live to twenty, and if they did they became frail as all old things do. Senu is twenty-seven, and she still moves and acts like a young bird. Bayek’s never thought about it until now because she’s been fine. It leaves a question between them Bayek can’t think about. He cannot die, and even now, fifteen years after he’d killed the Lion, he’s still not sure what it really means. The suggestion is awful.

“I will take the boy,” Amunet says, holding his hands with hers. “This fight will consume my life and leave barely a scratch, but I will do my best to make it bleed by training him and others. He will be the one to kill Octavian.” She says, “The next time I return to Egypt will be when I am buried. Will you see that it is done?”

“Of … of course.” Bayek hugs her with an arm, rocking with her. “I love you,” he says into her hair as he kisses her head. Long ago they had sworn off their love, but he can’t help what his heart feels. He has to say it. “Amunet …”

“I know,” Amunet says. “As do I. But we must let go for the last time.”

Like Khemu, Amunet is the one to pull back from him. She has left something in his hands, and Bayek uncurls his fingers to find a gold ring. He recognises it at once — he had given it to her just before Khemu’s birth. She smiles sadly at him and steps foot on the boat, nodding to Phoxidas at the rear who pushes them off the bank. Bayek stands numbly as he watches them go — Amunet, Phanos, Phoxidas, Caesarion, and the two Hidden Ones as they’re swallowed into the sun. He wants to follow them with Senu’s wings if he cannot run after them, her, on his own feet, but they both know Bayek has to do this. For the both of them. What has happened to him had become obvious on the bank. Amunet was showing signs of age — she was older than him at fifty-nine — with grey in her hair and lines around her eyes and upon her brow, whereas Bayek is unchanged. Even the tattoos on his arm still stand as clear as the day they were laid there when by all means they should have faded into shadows.

Bayek sits on the grass. Senu comes to him, landing on his shoulder and pushing her head against his cheek. Bayek turns his face into her.

* * *

Never dying is an agony unlike anything he has ever known.

 _I will be waiting for you in the Field of Reeds_ , his son had told him. Bayek despairs for how long that wait will be.


	2. the great nameless, ageless one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **There are spoilers for _Odyssey_ in this chapter**. When referring to events in the game, the timeline from the companion novel is used here.
> 
> Koine is the name of the ancient Greek language, Graeci is the Latin name for ancient Greeks, and Graecian is the singular. Hellas was the ancient Greek name for Greece.

**_[ACQUIRED_CONTEXT_01]_ **

“You can gift me what I seek.”

“I can, First Emperor. You’ve seen how when I cut myself I will not bleed. You’ve poisoned me and riddled me with arrows, and yet I still stand. I have the immortality you want, and I will trade it for your Heavenly Sphere.”

“… Chancellor Li Si, bring me the Sphere.”

“Gracious Emperor, this _Spartan_ —”

“Chancellor, bring the Sphere.”

“This _foreigner_ has no proof of having any kind of elixir of life to give! What if it’s just some trick, some black magic for the Sphere? Emperor, the Sphere is worth more than that.”

“I have proof. If you doubt me, Chancellor, you may drive this Spear or any other instrument into my flesh and see the results. Once I have bestowed this gift upon the First Emperor, he will be as invincible as I. If you don’t believe me then I will show you my elixir.”

“This small thing?”

“See how it shines?”

“This is alchemical quicksilver.”

“It is more than that. You have seen the wonders of my Spear. As well as taking life, it has the power to give. But only upon my command.”

“There is great spirit in this one. Chancellor, I am your Emperor. If you have forgotten that I will remind you, and I will keep reminding you until it is the only thing in your mind. Bring me. The Sphere.”

“As … as you wish, First Emperor.”

****

**_[BAYEK]_ **

He cannot die, and he forgets how many years now have passed. There is a withered apple before him, and he picks it up, bites into it. The juices dribble into the beard he hasn’t shaved for years. It trails somewhere by his belly.

His name is Bayek of Siwa, he knows somewhere deep within. He hasn’t had to think of himself as that for a long time; he is drifting on existence. He’s made his home in the mountains of the Sinai Peninsula, a two day walk from the nearest trading town so his only company is the wildlife and goat-herders from a nearby village. The people in the foothills call him the Great Nameless, Ageless One, and have done so for three generations. He’s unsure whether they see him as a cursed creature or an idol, and every so often he will find offerings left for him — bread, milk, honey, beer — which he used to at first leave, then started to take. He can’t truly starve himself to weakness if not death, but the ache of an empty belly isn’t pleasant to experience. He can catch and kill his own game, trade with travellers and in village markets, and once grew his own vegetables. The one constant in his life is Senu. They are entwined, and so long as one of them lives the other shall, too. When he has ventured into the villages he has heard they believe Senu to be his soul, and if she is shot down he will vanish into sand. He wonders if they still believe it. It’s been years since he heard it, and years more since any boys foolish enough have tried.

Sometimes he wishes more than anything he could die, spending days musing over how exactly to do it. There have been times when he’s tried, and all of them have ended in failure. If his body breaks, it mends itself. Sometimes it’s over the course of days, most of the time over mere hours. Every cut, every scrape, every bruise, every deep wound. Every burn, rot, amputation, crushing, _everything_ heals. The last evidence of any injury on his person is the scar on his breastbone. He’s lonely, and he’s sure that without Senu he would’ve gone mad long ago. Once he’d tried searching for people like him; it’d turned up nothing.

He has only a few belongings — the Sanaa _khopesh_ that was his father’s, lovingly cared for; the hidden blade, spotted with rust; a metal disk stamped with the symbol of the Hidden Ones; Amunet’s ring. He keeps them all so he may remind himself of who he is and what he believes in. He can’t make himself budge from his little dwelling place. He tries. He will pack his things and collect the scattered old coins and trudge off down the mountain. Sometimes he’ll make it a few days travel, but he always seems to turn back, or finds a new place if not the old one.

By his count it has been one hundred and fifty something years since Cleopatra Philopator’s death, and he has lived in these mountains for sixty or seventy. Of the people he’s seen and the Roman patrols that still march the roads, their dress has changed, and he hears the stories of the conquests of the Empire, and trading news from the Far East. He hears stories, too, of the work of the Hidden Ones, unknown by the people who bring the news but obvious to him as to what had happened. Assassinations, foiled plots, rescues. He feels pride for them, and for Amunet. She had done this, with him being only a little part. He may have been the pebble dropped in the water to start it, but Amunet had been the long-lasting ripples. She is revered as she should be. She has left her deep scratch, and still it bleeds.

The last he had dealt with the Hidden Ones was when a Jewish preacher had attracted the attentions of the Order for seeming miracles. For two years following the rabbi’s death the Hidden Ones and the Order had fought over a Relic that had briefly brought him new life after his execution. Bayek had come to the Hidden Ones a follower, not revealing his true identity; then Amun had been over a hundred years old, and forty-two years dead. Upon the rabbi’s crucifixion, the Roman Empire, and so the Order, claimed the Shroud, and then through the efforts of the Hidden Ones they had taken it back and somewhere for safety. He had left them afterwards and returned to the Sinai, where he has remained since.

He stirs from his thoughts when Senu lands on his knee. She has a dead mouse clutched in her beak, and he traces the feathers on her wings as she eats. “What do you think about this, Senu?” His voice is hoarse from his lack of speech, and he wets his lips. His waterskins are empty; the nearest water source is a half hour walk from the cave, and he sighs, standing. He does his best to gather the apple’s juice from his fingers, but it’s not enough. He slings the empty skins over his shoulder and takes up his bow. The wood’s old and the gold paint flaking, but it still does well enough for him. He can hunt as well as he ever has, shooting rabbits and wild goats right in the eyes from several dozen feet away. He has four arrows in his quiver, and adds making more to the list of things he needs to do. The shafts of his last arrows had snapped at various times, but he’s saved the heads and takes Senu’s shed feathers for the fletching.

The stream is downhill, nestled in the crevice of a shallow valley. The rocks scrape under his feet as he descends. He holds onto the scrub as he goes down, and avoids the unstable ground through his unique intuition. He stills when he hears voices. He fits himself to the ground, closing his eyes and reaching for Senu. She sees three men in the middle of butchering a wild goat. He can’t understand what they’re saying as they speak in Aramaic, though he understands the language of their weapons. The shepherds will carry a knife hidden beneath their clothing, but these men have two swords and a spear between them, and a poor bow each. One of the swords is a stolen _gladius_ , and the armour of the men who holds it looks to have likewise been taken from a legionnaire. Bandits, though what they’re doing here he can’t guess. There’s nothing of worth around here except people’s livestock, and even so there was stock of higher quality closer to populated areas.

He could kill them. He could do it in a heartbeat, they’re little more than a hundred paces from him and his bow is still powerful enough to reach them from here, but he remains still. The heat is getting to him when the bandits are finally done and bury the remains of the carcass so not to attract scavengers to the scraps of the kill. He moves on, wiping the sweat from his brow.

He hears the stream long before he sees it. The water runs crystal clear. He kneels, splashing a couple of handfuls onto his face and the back of his neck; though warm with the heat of the rocks, it’s still refreshing. He drinks before submerging the first of his skins.

He stands quickly when he sees movement, and nocks an arrow. The boy who emerges from beyond the bend in the rock stops abruptly, eyes wide as moons. He squats back down, putting the skin back into the water. The boy ducks his head and puts his hands under the stream. The boy holds them there, no doubt watching him from the corner of his eye. He takes his time, filling his other skins then cupping the water in his hands and lifting it to his mouth. The boy’s terrified, it’s not difficult to ascertain. No doubt he looks monstrous, unkempt as he is. The thought has him ask the boy in Koine, “Who is Emperor in Rome?”

“Antoninus Pius,” the boy answers, hushed.

He bobs his head to the side, cobra-like, grunting as he does. Antoninus has been emperor for the past forty years. He looks back at the boy. “And _praefectus Aegypti_?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are your parents?” The boy points meekly back down the trail. “There are things far more dangerous in these hills than I am. I’ll take you back to your parents.”

“But there’re only goats here …”

“Ey, they will still knock you silly with those horns of theirs.” He points at Senu. “This is Senu, and she keeps me safe from the goats. If you stay with me she’ll keep you safe too.”

The child looks sceptical, but he giggles when Senu chirrups. He whistles sharply through his teeth, and Senu leaps up into the sky. “Come,” he says, slinging the bow over his back. “Show me where to go.”

The boy takes him a long way back down the track. The stream stretches on for almost a Roman league before joining a river. They follow the stream down, and it has him wondering. “Why are you so far from home?”

“Exploring,” the boy mumbles. “Mama and Pa are fighting again.”

“What do they fight about?”

“Everything.”

“I am Bayek,” he says after a pause. “What’s your name?”

“Talmai.”

“Well, Talmai, you haven’t told me what you are exploring for. We are a long way from anything.”

“What’re _you_ doing here?” Talmai asks back, a little too quickly.

“I … live here.”

“Why?”

“Ey, look out over that way. You see? You can’t get a view like this further down the mountain.” he shades his eyes, looking to the horizon. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Talmai mumbles an agreement, and becomes quieter and quieter as they draw to their destination. A dozen tents are pitched along the stream, with twice as many families tending to chores outside them and by the water. Women scrub at clothes, feed fires, and nurse children. Older children run around the place shrieking with laughter, dogs following at their heels. He spots men mending fishing lines and counting trade- and livestock. They’re nomads. “How long have you been here?”

“Three days,” Talmai says. “Pa wants to move on after everyone’s rested.” He scuttles over to a woman standing by a cookpot, and whispers something to her which she bends to hear; his eyes are drawn to the bruise high on her cheekbone. “Talmai,” she says, and takes her son by the hand. She whispers something back to him in Aramaic which Bayek can fumble together enough that he can tell she’s asking Talmai who he is.

“Bayek,” Talmai says. “And Senu.” Bayek bows his head.

“Idra! _Idra!_ ” A stocky man stomps from out of the nearest tent, and his nostrils flare when he sees Bayek. “Who are you?” he barks in Koine.

“A traveller,” Bayek says, showing his hands are empty. “There are bandits roaming these hills; I thought I should warn you first before they found you.”

“We know about the bandits,” the man says. He looks at his wife and son, then says to Bayek, “Those tattoos on your arm, they’re from Egypt.”

“You have a good eye.” Bayek also notices the man’s fixated on the Sanaa _khopesh_. The man licks his lips quickly.

“You’ve seen the bandits around,” he says eventually. “If they’re close enough to see the fire, then stay the night. We’ll give you food and shelter, and you give us your protection. What do you think, my friend?”

Bayek tilts his head to the side, half-considering to refuse. He isn’t a mercenary for hire. Talmai and Idra though, change his mind. He nods half-heartedly, and the man barks at Idra, “Well? To it, woman!”

Bayek needs to bathe, but he doesn’t want to take the forced hospitality from Idra, who stacks more wood into the open cookfire and hauls a pot of water atop to boil. She also cuts and shaves his hair and beard. Bayek would have done it himself, but there’s a look in Idra’s eyes, a hard determination Bayek half-suspects is made of fear, as she approaches him with a straight-edged blade. It takes some time, but Idra is careful and gentle. Bayek rolls his neck, not realising how sore it was from the weight. “Thank you,” he stumbles out in Aramaic, one of the only phrases he knows in the language. Idra nods a little, but otherwise stays silent. Bayek’s thoughts are still consumed by the bruise.

Talmai comes by, and he tugs Bayek’s sleeve. “Pa wants to talk.”

“Bayek,” the man says a few minutes later. Bayek stands outside his tent with him, his arms crossed and Senu circling above. “I’m Damos, and, my friend, my home is your home.”

“Thank you, I’m honoured.”

“My wife really cleaned you up, didn’t she?” Damos laughs at his own joke; Bayek doesn’t react. “Tell me about the bandits my friend has seen, hmm?”

“I saw them earlier butchering a goat a league up the stream. Three of them, but there will be more of this scum nearby. Be sure you have others on watch tonight.”

“That’s what we’re paying you for, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend. You’re also not paying me anything.” Bayek hadn’t wanted payment, not really. He hasn’t used money since he’d last ventured to a nearby settlement for market over ten years ago. Now though, he’s remembering things about the way society works, and that yes, he will in fact need coin. He has four _drachmae_ on his belt, which if he isn’t careful he’ll run out of quickly.

Damos shrugs. “You agreed to food and shelter, and my wife, my beloved wife who I have let no one but you touch, has cleaned you. That —” and this he says with a raised finger and a shrill cry, “— is payment enough. How many weapons did they carry?”

“Enough,” Bayek says, petty.

Behind him on the tip of a tent pole, Senu takes off.

He flies with Senu for a long while, and when he’s shaken back to himself by Talmai, night is falling. “Bayek,” the boy whispers. “Food. Mama’s finished cooking; Pa’s invited you to sit with us.”

The sky’s darkening, and Bayek sniffs, rolling his shoulders and following Tamlai back to his family’s tent. Idra crouches by the pot on the cookfire, and the smell of herbs and meat wafts through the air. Bayek’s stomach growls as it hits his nose. Damos waits for him close to the flames, sitting on a goat’s wool rug.

“Bayek!” he shouts in greeting. “Come! The food you wished for.”

Bayek folds his legs under himself and accepts the bowl from Idra. He’s so hungry he finishes within a few minutes. He can’t remember the last time he cooked. The simple warm heartiness of the food and the taste is intoxicating. He would have licked the bowl clean if he hadn’t caught himself at the last minute, and puts it down. He is not a half-wild thing starved of society. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says to Idra, “Thank you,” bowing his head at the same moment. The corner of Idra’s mouth turns up ever so slightly.

“What is a mercenary doing here so far from jobs?” Damos asks. “I asked my son how he found you, and he said you were up the stream.”

“I was,” Bayek says. “I’ve been … living out here for some time.”

“And what for? Did you displease someone? Kill the wrong man, offended the gods?”

“Something like that.” Bayek takes a sip of water from a cup Idra offers to him.

Damos slaps his knee and wags a finger at Bayek. “A dangerous man, that’s what you are. I like you, my friend, I like you. Look at you! If anyone dares to touch us, then they will have to get to us through you!”

“What has happened in the world? I haven’t heard anything for —” He almost says _years_ , but settles instead for a more believable, “months.” He clears his throat. “The wars of Antoninus Pius still happen?”

Damos says in disbelief, “I don’t know about wars, but you haven’t heard? The emperor is dead.”

Bayek asks, “When?”

“Two months ago. He’s been succeeded by …” Damos hums a moment to recall the names, then clicks his fingers enthusiastically. “Yes! Lucius Verus and Marcus Aurelius.”

“Two emperors?” A _lot_ has changed.

“Many are expecting one of them to be dead within the year,” Damos says. “I’ve placed my bets on it being Marcus Aurelius. The man is weak from what I’ve heard, more philosopher than ruler.”

“So you would rather live under the rule of a warmonger?” Bayek asks bluntly. “We are on the boarder of two warring empires.”

“The northern barbarian tribes give trouble, and the Parthians have been fighting themselves for years.”

Bayek doesn’t believe him entirely. Damos comes off as ignorant to him, but who is he to know? He has only the vaguest grasp of what’s happening in the world as of now. The last he knew Parthia was hardly weak. Yes there was instability, but not weakness. “Who makes these claims, _seni_?”

“Everyone out there!” Damos exclaims, waving towards the other tents. Bayek takes a long swallow of water.

After the meal, Damos and his family go to bed, and Bayek settles himself outside the tent. He leans back against the nearest pole, dozing. His hand is clenched tight around Amunet’s ring. Senu never spots the bandits, and when the morning comes with no one worse for wear, Bayek leaves and never sees the caravan again.

His blood churns over the next few days. He runs his hands through his hair, he makes more arrows. He’s restless. Antoninus Pius is dead. Bayek bites at the pad of his thumb and from the mouth of his cave looks to the north-west and so towards Rome. Two emperors. His memories of Cleopatra are some of the clearest he has, and so he remembers all too well the blood that was spilt by hers and Ptolemy Theos’ war for the throne. The fear of that happening again awakens in his chest. Senu lands on his shoulder, sensing his change in mood.

 _Tell me of your life in Rome_ , Bayek had once asked Amunet.

_It is a marvellous place. Full of intrigue, deceit, and corruption. The wine is very good. You should come visit sometime. We’ll have a taste._

Bayek had never gone to Rome with Amunet; it hadn’t seemed to have aligned. Now though … “ _Mille viae ducunt homines per saecula Romam_ ,” he whispers.

A thousand roads lead men forever to Rome.

* * *

Bayek travels north. He could have gone east to Alexandria, but the very idea of it catches in his throat. There were major trading ports up north that could just as easily take him where he needs to go — Ake, Haifa, Yapu, or outposts like Rhinocorura if it still exists. Rome is too big of a city to not have at least one ship going there regularly from all those ports and more. Bayek, so used to disappearing by now, turns towards Yapu, the closest major port.

He descends from the mountains and travels to the town of Arsinoe. When Bayek had first come to the town during Cleopatra’s time, it had been a bustling port, and the ships in its harbours came from as far away as Limyrikê and Tamilakam. However it has spiralled into decline, and Bayek moves on. He had hoped to at least find a horse, but there is nothing that will be suitable to carry him for the hundreds of _iter_ he must travel. So he sets out on foot.

Bayek keeps the goal of Rome burning bright in his mind. He has to, otherwise risk falling into the same trap he has for years and turn around once more. He finds a momentum in walking, and slowly begins to remember what it’s like to live. His attention shifts from the fact of his existence, to the smaller things he thinks he must have thought of before Flavius. He hunts game, he gathers roots and plants to eat. At one small village he trades a whole goat carcass for a small pan, and begins cooking for himself again. He tosses up scraps for Senu to snatch out of the air, and he lays on his back under the stars, tracing the familiar patterns he had taught to Khemu. He finds himself falling back into the rituals to honour the gods. He washes at the beginning of each day, and leaves portions of food as offerings. He prays when he needs their guidance. He stops thinking so much about death, and in the evenings when he rests, sets his mind to carving wooden statues he leaves standing guard over smouldering campfires.

His improved mood makes Senu happier too. She becomes more like her playful old self than he’s seen in years, and he often bats her away from plucking at his hood. He keeps his hair and beard short, starts building his strength again. He begins to climb the rocks, and finds he can still pick hand- and footholds with just a sweep of his eyes. He also finds that with the knowledge of any serious injuries he could sustain from misplaced handholds, he takes more risks with his climbing. He does injure himself sometimes, and spends the hours in pain afterwards swearing up and down to not do it again. Then the pain fades, broken bones reset, and he learns the lessons about not what to repeat. He flies up cliff-faces, leaping so high and fast he can scale dozens of feet of rock within seconds. He starts putting on muscle again. Several months into his journey which he’s taken at a relatively slow pace, he kneels by a waterhole to wash his face, and when the water clears, he recognises himself for the first time in decades. He laughs. He doesn’t know why other than for giddy relief.

Bayek keeps going north. He’s a day outside of Yapu when he’s first pressed with the urge.

_To Byzántion. Go._

Bayek shifts on his cloak and opens his eyes to the red light of dawn. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he scrubs at his eyes, frowning. Byzántion? The quickest way to Rome is through Yapu. The idea of Byzántion refuses to leave him alone, and he scratches at his temple, annoyed with himself. Byzántion is out of the way, and he would end up travelling further to get to it and then its ports to Rome. The only way he’d go there would be if he was heading to Rome by land, and the idea is ludicrous. It’s easier to get a ship, and Yapu is just over the horizon.

_Bayek. Byzántion. Please, please._

It’s like a fly buzzing in his ear, and he ignores it, kicking dirt onto the fire and lashing up his belongings into his pack.

He arrives at Yapu’s gates just after midday. Joppa is the city’s Graecian name, and they say that it was the place where Andromeda was tied to the rocks to be sacrificed. Now it’s occupied by Rome. He’s never been to Yapu before, but he knows before he even arrives something is wrong at the city gates. A crowd mingles around the gates, and Bayek joins them silently. People are angry, restless. After a while Bayek nudges a man next to him and asks, “What is happening?” The man shrugs, and Bayek eases himself through the crowd. The process is delicate. People hit and shove him back, yelling for him to wait; he wipes a man’s spit from his cheek. The further he goes the more he understands that some people have been here for a long, long time. Senu can see that there are tents set up along the city walls, and the constructs of some crude irrigation system that suggests settlement. Bayek hums at this, continuing to ease himself through the packed space with one hand on his money pouch the whole time.

“Romans,” he hears someone sneer. “They can’t leave us well enough alone.”

“You need to pay your taxes.”

“I heard it wasn’t taxes. There’s plague in the city, and they need to examine everyone coming in and out.”

“Why would they care about people coming in? I’ve heard they’re looking for someone.”

“How long have you been here?” Bayek asks a man.

The man turns to him, irritable. “Three weeks! I’ve been here for three fucking weeks, and for what? I don’t know! The city gates will open only to a few every day!”

Byzántion is beginning to look like a better idea.

* * *

Bayek could have gone to another place. Ake is closer to Yapu, but he arrives at Byzántion almost a month later. He’s road sore and tired, but in the end he does feel better. It feels good to _move_ again, and in the act of walking, he finds that. He’d followed the coast from Yapu until he was north of Cyprus, then had crossed through Persian country to reach Byzántion. The walls of the city are so huge and vast that he sees them well before anything else. Byzántion sits on the western side of the Bosporos, and Bayek has to get a ferry across the river. He steals past the Roman checkpoints. For the next few hours he’ll look for somewhere to stay the night and rest before he’ll start at dawn the following day looking for someone to take him to Rome. But first, his concern is for his stomach; it’s eating him from hunger.

Byzántion heaves with people. He’s seen few cities which boast the numbers of Byzántion, Alexandria being one of them, Rome another. The city is Graecian-founded, but has been under Roman occupation for almost three hundred years. In the rich districts great marble buildings stretch to the skies — courthouses, banks, temples, all situated along roads lined with statues of rulers, heroes, and gods. In the poor districts down by the water, slums rule, streets heaving with children with hollow bellies, the diseased, the dead. But as a whole, Byzántion flourishes under _Pax Romana_ , and is one of the few city states left in the empire. As the gateway to the vastest empire in the world, Byzántion spills with people from every corner of the world. It’s a melting pot greater even than Alexandria. Within the length of a single street Bayek passes Graeci, Romans, Macedonians, Egyptians, Gauls, Tamilans, Han, Persians, Parthians, Bactrians, Nubians, Ḥimyarites, Scythians, and so many others he can’t put names to them. Languages enfold each other, people out on business or going to their homes, going on walks, carrying goods to market, pickpockets, beggars, whores, all of them fighting for the attention of others. Bayek endures the overwhelming atmosphere, standing in the street a moment and just feeling everything around him — the push and pull of bodies, the stink of sweat, and heat of people. _It’s like Alexandria, it’s like Memphis. People, nothing more. Remember._ He squeezes through everything and keeps going, looking for a market.

Senu guides him to one, and Bayek buys a half round of bread, soft cheese, an onion, and a summer apple. He eats it atop a bank looking out over the market, hunched back in the shade so he’s not spotted as easily. He lazes for some while, enjoying the respite.

He startles when Senu hisses next to him. Bayek sits up, looking to where she is. At first he doesn’t understand. A little ways from them is another eagle, an all-brown creature who stares them with piercing golden eyes. “Senu,” Bayek chides, but the more he looks, the more unsettled he feels deep in his gut. The eagle clicks its beak and moves its head, watching them as intently as they watch it.

Senu suddenly shrieks and darts at the eagle. The eagle lifts up, and Senu continues crying at it. Bayek’s never seen her so agitated, and he calls to her in a soft, soothing voice. “Senu, Senu girl.” Not even his touch can comfort her. He strokes her head and back, but even when he scratches at the favourite place under her chin, she doesn’t respond. Bayek frowns. He trusts Senu’s senses more than his own in these kinds of situations. He’s seen her agitated before, but never anything like this. Bayek climbs down from the roof and heads deep into the city.

Two days pass and nothing happens. Bayek begins feeling more comfortable, and takes the first day to rest. On the second he starts talking to merchant vessels at the docks about passage to Rome. Many asks for ridiculous prices, and Bayek laughs in their faces. Some refuse to take him for a myriad of reasons, from refusal to service Egyptians, to the only bed available being set aside for a to-yet-be-found mistress. “She has the most beautiful eyes,” the man insists. “My best bed for my most beautiful girl.”

“Only give her the bed after you’ve grown the spine to ask her if she wants to lay in it for you,” Bayek snaps, irritated.

He returns to the market soon after for food. He examines a few root bulbs, pays for a couple, then walks away, biting into one. He’s halfway across the marketplace when he sees a line of taverns, their fronts facing onto the market. Despite it being the middle of the day business booms. Men lean on the façade of the nearest one, jabbering like birds in a language Bayek can’t place, and his gaze drifts from them to another who stands in their shadow, a woman. She’s unusual to say the least. She has a cup of beer in hand, a sword on her hip, and a quiver of arrows on her back as well as a bow. She looks at the men beside her, and she pauses briefly, as if sensing she’s being watched.

Their eyes meet, and Bayek can’t stop staring at her. Although dirt cakes her face and her hair is dishevelled she’s beautiful, but it’s not what Bayek stares at. It’s not some sort of familiarity either. It’s kinship. He clenches his fist, acutely feeling the space of his missing finger. The moment’s broken when the woman shifts her position and takes a deep drink from her cup. Bayek snorts quietly, rubbing at his face and pulling his hood further forward. He glances up at Senu as he keeps moving deeper into the streets, and he knows from experience that the woman’s following them. Bayek’s mood settles into a calm tempo, and he walks a little further into the bustle to try and lose her. He’s not sure if he’s successful; Senu can’t make her out, but Bayek’s certain that he’s still being followed. He makes his way to a less busy street.

He hears the beating of wings, and he knows that it’s the eagle from the bank roof without looking around. Bayek extends the blade on his wrist, slashing at the bird. The eagle screeches and flaps hard to avoid the blade. Senu lands on the eagle’s back half a moment later, and the alley is filled with the sound of the screaming, fighting birds. People yell and run for cover. Bayek runs towards the end of the street. He plans on getting further lost into the crowds when he hears the woman say, “Stop!” in Koine. How she caught up so quickly and silently he can only guess. Bayek recoils. He spins to face her, and grunts when the flat of a spear digs into his chest; a single tilt of the woman’s wrist would see it cut him. It’s not that which is uncomfortable though. The contact of it makes Bayek itch behind his eyes, and his skin crawls. It’s the most physically repellent thing he’s ever felt, and he feels like gagging.

“I’m going to take this away,” the woman says, “ _if_ you agree to be still.”

“I agree,” Bayek says quickly. He wants the spearhead away from him. The relief is instant, and Bayek let go a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He puts a hand to his chest, unable to hide his trembles.

The woman looks at him with curiosity. “I’ve not seen such a strong reaction in a long time.”

“Your spear is unnatural,” Bayek says in understanding.

“Only the gods can know that.” The strange eagle calls, and it flutters down onto the woman’s shoulder. Senu comes to Bayek a moment later. There’s blood on her feathers, and when she lands on Bayek’s arm she hunches, her feathers puffed up, and she glares at the woman’s eagle.

Bayek sneers, hurting for Senu and disliking this woman for hurting her. “You follow me why?”

“My name is Kassandra. I think you’re like me.”

Bayek snorts. “There is no one like me. Be glad of it.”

“Do not say that so quickly.” She flicks a finger to the eagle on her shoulder and says, “You have your eagle and I have mine. I can See from Ikaros.” Bayek opens his mouth to say … _something_ , but the woman also says, “And neither he nor I can See you.”

That word, _See_. Bayek knows she doesn’t mean it in the way other people do. He knows exactly what she means, and he asks, “You can’t See me?”

Kassandra says, “Try.”

Bayek doesn’t trust her enough to look at her with Senu, because when he’s with Senu his body is left vulnerable. Years of self-preservation make him wary, but, well, he can’t die. He looks at the woman through Senu, and to his amazement she’s … she’s _not there_. No, it’s not the right word. He can still see where the vague shape of her is, but he can’t grasp anything more than that. It’s like holding onto soft butter with oil-slick palms, he keeps losing his grip, his Sight of her. Bayek shakes his head and comes back to himself. Kassandra is patiently waiting for him, and Bayek curls his fingers into a fist. He holds out his arm for Senu.

“So we share this strange gift,” he says lowly as Senu comes to him. “What of it?”

“ ‘What of it’?” Kassandra asks. “It is incredible, unique, and you would just brush it away?”

“Whatever curiosity I would have once had is gone. Leave me be.” He knows he’s being unreasonable, but he doesn’t want to talk to anyone now, much less this woman.

“Are you so determined to be alone?” she retorts.

“Ack, I would not be feeling as such if you did not pester me with your questions! Leave me, I said.”

“What is your n—?”

“You think you can ask anything of me after coming at me with a weapon and injuring my companion?”

“Does it matter? Your eagle will heal soon enough. Ikaros does.”

Bayek spits with malicious laughter. “What would you know, Graecian? Touch either of us again and I will kill you.”

“I don’t think you can,” Kassandra says. “I don’t think I can kill you either.” Bayek falters, and Kassandra takes the opportunity to keep talking. “I told you, I think you’re like me, and in more ways than the eagles. You have a bloodline. Come with me. Unless you have a better place to go?”

Kassandra leads him to a tavern, a different one to where he’d first seen her, but no less filthy. They’re soon sitting on the straw-strewn floor with their legs crossed under a squat wooden table, with a pitcher of beer and two wooden cups. With the commencement of twilight, tallow candles are lit around the space and three dozen men are packed into the small room, chattering loudly in a variety of languages. Most of them look like locals, merchants and craftsmen, off-duty guards. Kassandra is the only woman.

She’s also not like any other woman Bayek’s met. He’s met plenty of warriors, plenty of sailors too, but he’s not met a woman who acts so much like a man. Within minutes of sitting down she’s drunk two full cups of beer and spat as well as anyone Bayek’s seen. She strong-arms her way through the patrons, swears at the top of her voice, and when she gets into a heated argument for a minute, Bayek notices a shift to her language where she becomes more aggressive and assertive, and she ends it by shoving the man back into a wall with a kick between his legs. At one point she starts cursing a young boy who tried to touch the spear on her back with such creative foulness Bayek’s impressed beyond words. He would have been amused by it if he wasn’t still angry about Senu.

“I am surprised they let you drink here,” he says casually, gesturing around the room.

Kassandra huffs a laugh into her cup. “They don’t, but they can’t do shit about it. I have no one left I care about getting hurt, and they can’t hurt me with anything but words. If they try to lay a hand on me I’d break their fingers and bruise their pride — I have. Now they tolerate me because they have no choice. I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt that I’m merely _tolerated_. I want to be accepted, and I want to drink my gods be damned beer without getting asked why I’m going against my God-given female nature, or why my husband lets me play with his swords and get drunk.”

Bayek’s gaze flicks around the room, and now that he’s looking for it he can see the passive hostility that no one else displaying Kassandra’s behaviour seems to receive. Two men mutter under their breaths, glaring at the back of Kassandra’s head so often it doesn’t take much to guess what their gripes are. Many others are forcibly ignoring her; they avoid looking at her chair, their eyes roving instead to the space above her head before continuing around the room, and they resolutely keep their gazes away when walking by. Some stare at Bayek too; at least people back down when Bayek matches their anger.

A man passes the table on the way to the door, and spits on the table in front of Kassandra. Kassandra wipes the spit away with the hem of her sleeve, glowering. “I once shoved a man’s prized false-eye up a goat’s arsehole because he annoyed me so,” she says, looking at the man from under her brows as he ducks outside. “Sometimes I think about digging out these mens’ eyes and replacing them with fake ones just for the pleasure of doing it all over again. _Amathaíno moríon_.” She takes another deep draught of her beer, belches, and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. “Urgh, talking of this stuff tastes like goat’s piss.” She crosses her arms on the table top and leans forward. “So, as to what I was saying before, I don’t think we could really kill each other. Never mind the number of knives we could bury in the other’s flesh.”

“I’ve seen you can drink, and curse,” Bayek says, “but fight?”

“I can fight fine,” Kassandra says, waving his words away. “I meant exactly what I said: I don’t think we could kill each other. How old are you, Bayek of Siwa? Two hundred? Two hundred and fifty?”

Bayek’s startled she knows his name, but when she guesses at his age, cold shivers run down his spine. Her grabs her by the wrist so tightly her skin turns white around his fingers, but she doesn’t react except to raise an eyebrow.

“Who are you?” he asks again, aggressively.

“I am Kassandra of Sparta,” she says. “I was born six hundred years past. My grandfather was Sparta’s greatest king Leonidas, Champion of the Battle of Thermopylai.”

Bayek looks her up and down, breathing fast and shallow. The corner of Kassandra’s mouth curves up in a wicked smile, and she straightens her spine and shouts to one of the servers for more beer. Bayek can’t hear anything over the noise of the room. It’s become a rumble in his ears as his mind races. How had she known? And if she was telling the truth about herself …

“Hey.” Bayek’s brought back to reality when Kassandra pats his cheek. “Bayek? Bayek.”

“How did you …?”

“Know? Find you? I’ve been doing this longer than you have. For me it is called listening and luck, oh Great Nameless, Ageless One. If you stay in one place long enough stories spread. I went to the Sinai but you’d moved on.”

Bayek stiffly drinks a mouthful of the beer, and tries not to make a face as he swallows; Kassandra wasn’t lying when she’d said it’d tasted foul. He wonders how she’s on her fourth cup. “Alright,” Bayek says. “I have more questions.” Kassandra shrugs, and Bayek asks, “How many others are there like us?”

“You’re the first I’ve found. If there are more people like us then I don’t know where they are.”

“How has this happened?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t know why either.”

“If you’ve known about me for so long why wait until now?”

“I didn’t know about you until a few months ago. When I did I guessed what you were and raced to meet you, but you’d gone. Ikaros and I came after you as fast as we could. Now, I have questions for you. Why have you left the mountains? Where are you going?”

“Rome, and I’m looking for passage.”

“Ah, and what is in Rome for you?”

“Deceit, corruption,” Bayek says in an echo of Amunet. “Wine.”

Kassandra smiles toothily at him. “This sounds like the start of a beautiful friendship.”

“Who said I was looking for friends?”

“I did.” Kassandra pulls a knife from her belt, and Bayek watches as she lays a cut to the edge of her hand. Blood dribbles onto the table, and soon the cut begins to glow in the same way Bayek’s wounds do when he heals. “I’m tired of being alone, Bayek, and I think you are too.”

Bayek’s saved from answering by a hand slamming onto the table between him and Kassandra. It belongs to the man who’d spat at them before, and, ignoring Kassandra, he leers at Bayek. “She your woman?”

“I only met her today, _neb_ ,” Bayek says, polite for now.

“She’s nothing but wicked, trouble,” the man says. “A demon.”

“Is she? And where is your proof, ey?”

“There’s proof enough as is.” The man leans over them and grabs Bayek by the upper arm. “Now, Egyptian, you can leave with her, and I’ll leave you both be. Stay, and —” Bayek, who’d at first been startled and then quickly furious, wrenches his arm back and punches the man in the nose. The man reels back, howling with pain and indignation.

Kassandra’s eyes glitter. “Oh, I _like_ you.”

“You claim you can fight,” Bayek says to her as the man’s companions stand from their table. “Time to prove it.”

“Ha! You prove it to me, Egyptian!”

Bayek punches the next man to come at him in the chest. The blow’s hard enough to send him back into a group of patrons, and Kassandra kicks another in the stomach. Bayek rolls his shoulder when a second man lunges for him, drawing his hidden blade and sinking it into the meat of his arm to leave him too preoccupied with the wound to continue fighting, and claps another two’s heads together. Others are converging on him, and he prepares for a longer fight when he sees a flash from the corner of his eye. He turns as the man Kassandra had kicked in the ribs flies so far and fast he wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen. The yells are deafening.

“The door!” Kassandra calls, and she scampers over the stunned patrons. Bayek grunts and ducks beneath a punch. He hits the man in the side, knees one between his legs, then leaps after Kassandra. They burst onto the street, and Kassandra bellowing with laughter. Bayek tugs her away.

They retreat to a rooftop; Senu lands by Bayek’s elbow as he cleans his knuckles with gathered rainwater, clicking at her with his tongue and stroking her head. The hidden blade is bloody too. He wipes it clean with an oil-cloth, testing the edges with a fingertip.

Kassandra sits under a hanging rug, tugging her hair from its braid and licking at a healing split lip. She exhales a little deeper when she sees Bayek’s hidden blade. “You wear it the wrong way around.”

“You know this thing?” Bayek asks, but Kassandra says nothing else on the topic. She looks down into the street.

“We have to go. There’s more attention being put onto the tavern.”

“It was just a brawl,” Bayek protests.

“Yes, but it was about me. _Malákas_ , these pig-shit stains …”

“How did you do that?” When Kassandra tilts her head, Bayek elaborates, “I saw you kick that man further than anyone should be able to.”

Kassandra wipes her nose with the back her hand. “Not here,” she says, and thrusts her chin towards Byzántion. “Do you need to go to Rome desperately?”

Bayek says cautiously, “It can wait if it must.”

“Then I have a place.”

* * *

Bayek has never liked the deep ocean. He spends the first two days on the ship leaning over the rail and trying not to be sick, whilst Kassandra languishes in the sun next to him and tilts her face up to catch the warmth.

“After all the leaping from high places, I’d have thought your stomach would be stronger, Bayek!”

“Ey, I fall straight down,” Bayek grouses. “This is being yanked from one direction to another.”

“Surely you’ve been on ships before?”

“Very few times in deep water, and I’ve enjoyed the journey less than that.” Bayek’s eyelids flutter. “Remind me … where we’re going.”

“Andros. My … home, for now.” Just from her tone it sounds like it’s a decision made by practicality rather than choice, which makes Bayek all the more curious.

The ship takes them to the Macedonian city of Thessaloniki, and from Thessaloniki they hire a place on a poaching vessel bound for Andros. It moors offshore about halfway down the west side of the island, and Bayek and Kassandra depart the ship with a group of hunters. There are better places to dock, Bayek thinks, and he says it as they’re dragging the rowboat ashore. One of the hunters laughs. “And let the Roman dogs catch us? I don’t think so.”

“Then why not go further north? The garrison is only around the bend in the coast.”

“Nothing and no one goes north. Why’re you here? You running from someone?”

“If we told you that we’d have to cut out your tongue,” Kassandra says lightly. “And your hands if you can write.”

“If I could read and write I wouldn’t be here.”

“Fair.” Kassandra and Bayek set off into the trees. Kassandra doesn’t want them to be followed, and although the hike is hilly, it’s easy. Bayek is just grateful they’re on solid ground once again, although he doesn’t revel in the thought of being trapped on an island. The eagles fly high above them. Senu, Bayek finds with a hint of amusement, hasn’t warmed to Ikaros the way Bayek has to Kassandra. It doesn’t mean he entirely trusts her, he thinks he would be a fool to do so. She, however, trusts him enough to be showing him something obviously secretive if she has them going around the island through the forests when the beach stays little more than a quick walk to their left. Kassandra covers their tracks as well, and she stops periodically. Bayek knows that she’s looking through Ikaros’ eyes just as he can look through Senu’s. Seeing it from the outside is surreal. Bayek’s never given much thought to what he looked like to others as he scouted with Senu. Bayek’s so lost in thought he’s roused again when Kassandra keeps walking on.

“We’re nearly there. No one’s following us either.”

“And if they were?”

“I’d kill them.” She says it so without fuss Bayek frowns.

Kassandra stops just before a sudden crevice. The rock forms a narrow corridor, the sides overgrown with vines so it’s hard to see down into the space without standing right on the lip. Where the crevice leads is shrouded in shadows. Kassandra walks down into the crevice, and Bayek follows her. Senu lands on his shoulder, and Bayek finds his arm tensing to reach for a weapon. He shakes himself when he realises it. The crevice soon ends with a solid stone wall. Kassandra’s looking at Bayek closely. Bayek’s eyes go from her face to the rock. He recognises the architecture. It’s not a natural rock face. The black stone blocks are cut in the same way of the tombs in Egypt with grooves too perfect for men’s hands to have made. There’s a horrible sucking sensation in his gut.

Kassandra says, “I want to see something. Put your hand on the door.”

 _This is a door?_ Bayek puts his hand on the stone, cautious. Nothing happens for a moment, but then the stone shifts. He leaps back in alarm when it slides up, making way for a person to enter.

Kassandra’s eyes shine. “I knew it.”

“What is this?”

“The Forge. And the only safe place I’ve been able to claim as some kind of home for centuries.” She says it with disdain. “Come in.”

It’s so dark inside Bayek can’t see a foot in front of him. Kassandra takes him by the upper arm. “The floor slopes. There’s boards here, the stone’s more slippery than wet marble.” The further they go the easier it is to see. This place is already far bigger than any indoor space Bayek has seen, man-made or natural. He wouldn’t have thought it ended until he sees the distant glow of gold. Once they reach even floor, Kassandra goes first. Stone slabs march along the length of the chamber, each as wide and tall as an elephant with only the depth of a handspan. When Kassandra passes the first one Bayek almost falls back in shock when golden letters spring into life, floating in the air and changing rapidly. Bayek reaches to touch them. His fingers pass through the light, leaving a slight buzz of sensation.

“I have seen this _heka_ before,” he says, continuing to pass his fingers through the symbols, “but it was long ago.”

“You’ll have to tell me about it,” Kassandra says, and they keep walking.

The space the corridor opens up to is vast, the ceiling stretching up and away further than Bayek can see, maybe even to the tip of the mountain. Senu flies up there, and when Bayek looks down upon the chamber with her eyes, he and Kassandra are like ants. In the centre of this new, open area are four pillars of stone. Three are broken, and the final, whole one reaches high. The impressions of weapons are embedded into each pillar, including, Bayek ascertains after looking back and forth, Kassandra’s broken spear.

In the middle of the pillars is a platform, and upon it a long dead firepit surrounded by logs to sit on. “Look at the spiders in here,” Kassandra grumbles. “Thirty years I leave this, and now look!”

“You have not been here for thirty years?” Bayek asks, astonished.

“If you live as long as I have, thirty years is nothing. It’s three months. Time passes like that —” she snaps her fingers, “— and it starts to hold less and less meaning.”

Bayek understands somewhat, but to him thirty years is still a long time. Kassandra sweeps the ashes out onto a sheet and scatters them into the sand strewn about the floor. “Check the firewood over there, would you? There might be something salvageable.” She points him to a space behind one of the pillars. Bayek traces the grooves of an axe in the rock, wiping webs from his hands. There is a pile of wood, and to his surprise it’s usable. He says as much to Kassandra. “This place is strange like that. It slows natural decay.”

As Kassandra stokes the fire, Bayek explores. He’s grateful Kassandra lets him be, and his curiosity is morbid. The last time he’d been in a place like this he’d left camel shit everywhere, and it had left questions burning in his mind which, he finds, are reigniting themselves after years of slumber. _What am I? Why am I like this?_ He’s remembering other things too. The stuttering voice from the pillar that had called him made, and that he was to find out at a preconceived time about himself. Was this the time? He remembers something else, too. Piece of Eden. A prickle goes up Bayek’s neck, and he turns around to Kassandra still hunched over the fire. His attention is caught by something else. The chamber is vast, but there has been a corner carved out of it. The frame of a sleeping pallet is pushed against a wall, as is a weapons rack and a golden breastplate, dull with years of neglect, sitting on the floor along with an old Corinthian helm. Other scarce belongings are scattered around, but it’s not what Bayek’s seen. A little ways away from the sleeping pallet is something he suspects holds grotesque relevance.

Chalk-white theatre masks painted with red patterns are hammered into the rock wall. After a moment, he understands. “The Masked Ones hunted you.”

Kassandra’s watching him. “And destroyed mine and my family’s lives. I killed them all for it.”

Bayek can guess what happened afterwards all too well. Kassandra had been right when she said they were similar in more ways than the eagles, but the parallels run far deeper than he could have ever imagined, or wanted to. “Why keep the reminders?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

There’s more to the space Kassandra has made. Separated from the pallet and the masks is a shrine, tucked away so neatly Bayek doesn’t think it an accident. The flowers before it are long rotted, but the amulets and what he assumes are keepsakes are perfect. He kneels before it. The array of items ranges from coins, to a second, far more ornate Corinthian helm and sword, to a twisted lock of hair secured with a golden bead. In the centre of it all sits a ceramic urn, and behind that is a panel painting of a serious, dark haired young man, rendered much in the same way as mummy portraits. Flowers surround both objects.

Bayek asks of the painting, “Who is he?”

Kassandra kneels beside him to sweep up the dead flowers. “Alexios. My brother.”

Bayek drops his head. Much in the same way he knew of the masks and their meaning, he knows the tone of someone who speaks of others with tragedy.

Kassandra says tightly, “Feel free to come and go from this place as you like. This side of the island is deserted. There’s plenty of game to hunt for both us and the birds, and there’s a good fishing spot a little past the close beach. If you want goods or to leave Andros entirely, Palaiopoli is a two hour walk south.”

Bayek nods his thanks. He does want to leave, he still wants to travel north to Rome, but he also wants to know about Kassandra and this mysterious place. It only takes a moment of deliberation. “I’ll stay a while.”

“Good! I’ve no food though so I’ll go hunting, and I need new flowers. My home is your home, Bayek. You do as you wish.”

Two days after they arrive, Bayek prepares to stay for the long term. The Forge has left him with far too many questions he can’t see himself leaving anytime soon. Kassandra has also given him much to think about. They’re sitting on the floor, constructing a sleeping pallet for Bayek. The carpentry helps Bayek to relax and concentrate on something other than his surroundings. He doesn’t much mind the splinters in his hands either; every so often one would pop from his skin and flake to the floor. The Forge is never cold; liquid rock runs through its walls, and Bayek wipes beads of sweat from his brow. The air isn’t only warm, but incredibly dry; he finds himself licking his lips every few minutes as he runs his fingers over the stone walls, comparing them to the walls in his memories from Egypt. They really are the same.

The Forge is also much, much bigger than any of the chambers he’s before found, even the one beneath Khufu’s pyramid. The main chamber is cavernous, and exploring along the grand entrance way and the walls behind the four stone pillars, he finds off-shooting corridors, sealed by doors much like the one leading outside. He finds eight doors all together, two of which don’t seem to budge. They judder when he lays his hands upon them, but he guesses even Kassandra has failed at opening them; he finds chipped stone around the doors’ edges as if they have have been gone at with a blunt force intending to pry them apart.

And every night they talk. Bayek hasn’t realised how much he’s thirsted for company until Kassandra. They talk for hours about even little things, about the day’s hunting and cloud shapes. Kassandra had told him she was lonely on the day he met her, and he believes it now. If what she says is true and was born during the Age of Perikles and fought in the Peloponnesian War, then she must be entirely more starved for company than him. Kassandra’s crass and her boundaries are far to reach, but there are some subjects upon which she will not venture, one of them being her family. Bayek understands those boundaries; he won’t talk of Aya or Khemu, nor Amunet or the last time he saw her, borne in a grown Caesarion’s arms. Amunet had trained him like she had promised, and Bayek had hardly recognised the young man beneath the hood of the Hidden Ones.

 _I promised her_ , Caesarion had said as he placed her down at his feet. _I promised I would find you, and bring her back._

That had been two years before Caesarion had struck down Augustus not in revenge for destroying his life, he’d said, but as his duty as Pharaoh to protect Egypt. Bayek won’t talk of Amunet’s burial, he won’t talk of anything much of his past life except for the rare occasional story, and most of those are from his youth as a Medjay, funny stories, stories about triumphs, failings. Instead they focus on the present. For Bayek, it’s an overwhelming relief to be able to share the burden he carries.

Another of Kassandra’s boundaries is the story of her hunt of the Masked Ones. She talks not only of the Order, but of another group she calls the Cult of Kosmos which is the same as the Order yet different, and never in detail. Bayek never comments on her tight voice when she says the name, nor the way her hands clench.

The weather begins to cool from a blazing summer to a warm and dry autumn. Leaves and pine needles coat the forest floors, and game becomes more bountiful. Bayek spears a boar one day, and the pelt is fine enough that he decides he’ll sell it in Palaiopoli. The meat’s enough to last him and Kassandra a week, and that night the Forge is filled with the smell of cooking meat and hot fat. Bayek throws bits of gristle up into the air for Senu and Ikaros to catch, and he and Kassandra laugh as the birds swoop in turn to snatch them from the air. Kassandra has procured half a dozen caskets of wine from a caravan that had wandered into the northern forests and then hastily been abandoned. That had been a few hours ago, and now they’ve already drunk one through. Bayek’s noticed that since the Lion’s death, he can’t get drunk as easily as he once had. More often than not he feels bloated before drunk, but he ignores it tonight.

He watches Kassandra knock back another five cups in a row, and she sits up from where her back had been resting against her log, looking at her fingers. “I can feel it now,” she tells no one in particular. “Drowning myself isn’t how I would like to go about the business of drink, but what choice do we have if we want to feel anything from it.” She burps, and addresses Bayek again. “It’s nice to have someone to drink with for once. I’ve been looking for others like us for years. I’ve been to the Far East, further than Alexander ever went. I found more Relics. I broke Alexander’s Trident and was an accomplice to the murder of Qin’s First Emperor for an Orb. Of people like us, though? Nothing. Only legends that had holes poked in them like paper when I looked at them.”

Bayek asks, “How long have you been looking for others?”

“Since I realised that this might have happened before, or would happen again,” Kassandra says. “I’ve had desperate hope that one day I would find someone like me. If I hadn’t believed in that I would have gone mad.” She knocks her knuckles against the log. “How did you die, Bayek of Siwa?”

Bayek doesn’t think for a long while, he can’t conjure a thought into his head. “I …,” he manages to get out after a long pause, “I found the man who orchestrated the death of my son. I went after him; he killed me before I could kill him.” He shifts his shirt aside to expose the scar. “I slit his throat.”

“For me, it was at the end of a long battle,” Kassandra says. “One of my dearest friends fell in that, and I went after the man who’d done it. There was fire everywhere that day; I don’t know which side set the forest ablaze, but it doesn’t matter now. A tree fell on him. Before I could move to him one came crashing down on me.”

“Did he live?”

“Yes …” Bayek says nothing of how glassy her eyes have become. It’s the wine speaking, he knows that. Or maybe it’s just the excuse she’ll use later.

Talk turns to the Forge, and of the other strange things they’ve seen over their long lives. Kassandra wants to see the places Bayek describes to her in Egypt.

“They were barren, and what they said I couldn’t make any sense of,” Bayek says. “ ‘Doomsday clock’, ‘Faraday cage’, ‘mustard gas’, ‘veetoos’; they were just what I remember of the strange things I heard. There was a name throughout it all. ‘Desmond’, and a Roman date. December twenty-first.”

“Are you sure it was ‘Desmond’?” Kassandra asks him.

Bayek leans forward. “I am certain. Why? Have you found something like it?”

Kassandra’s lips part, and her brow wrinkles in confusion. Then she shakes her head. “Never mind. These chambers, I want to see them.”

Kassandra can go if she wants, but Bayek won’t step foot in those places again, both for the way they felt against his skin, and the sickness, the hatred he felt standing before the pillar of Qeneb.too Kah'Aiye and its silence. The hatred for what made it, and for what it and its golden glow has taken from him — everything. “So you go,” he says casually. “What do you think you can make of them?”

“If I knew what to make of them I wouldn’t go,” is Kassandra’s answer.

“Then I will tell you what I saw and save you the trouble. They speak of things I think are yet to happen,” Bayek says. “1983, 2012. I think these are years counting from Augustus’ reign.”

“You think that the Roman Empire will survive so long?” Kassandra asks flatly. “Empires may seem eternal, but they do not last; I have seen many ‘eternal empires’, and all of them have fallen.”

“The Great Pyramids are three thousand years old. And what else am I to think,” Bayek says, “when these messengers said Marcus Junius Brutus was two thousand years dead?”

Kassandra stares past him. “That’s impossible.”

Bayek smiles without humour and gestures around them. “Ha! You speak of the impossible when we are surrounded by this! No man can harness the fury of mountain fire.”

“It’s not impossible when you know how it was done.”

Bayek feels like he’s been hit across the face. “Wh … What? Kassandra, you …” He can’t find the words.

Kassandra seems to deliberate with herself for some time. “You’re right, Bayek,” she says after a long while, with the utmost seriousness. “You’re closer to the truth than you know. This place was not made by man, or gods. I have to tell you about Those Who Came Before.”

* * *

Bayek never thought he could despise the Oracle’s Relic more than he did. He’s seen what it can do, but to know what they did in the past, why they were made. If he hadn’t experienced the tombs, the Relic, or his long life firsthand, he would have called Kassandra mad. But he is privy to these secrets, and now knowing of the force behind them … he wants to retch. The warm glow of the wine in his belly has long vanished.

Kassandra looks haggard. “No one must know about Them,” she says. “If enough know that humanity was made and his nature is to serve, then we will never find peace.”

 _Every single man, woman, and child I’ve ever known … born solely to be slaves._ “The monsters among us have already figured it out.”

“Isn’t that what your Hidden Ones do?” she asks. “Stop those monsters?”

“These … Ones Who Came Before,” Bayek says, light-headed, and gestures around to indicate the Forge, “why did they leave if they were so powerful? Where did they go?”

“I told you: all empires fall. Maybe they are us,” Kassandra says. “Maybe it is because of them we can see through eagles’ eyes. Perhaps they have left this world to be elsewhere. Or maybe they just died. But their world is ours now, nothing will change that.” She says, “You saw them on the walls in the black stone tombs, didn’t you?”

Bayek grinds his teeth and looks away. “I saw my gods on the walls of those Vaults — Thoth, Bastet, Horus, Amun-Ra.” He spits and shakes his head. He can’t let the gods go, and so pushes the issue down. “These places were not made for the gods, but by them.”

“I wouldn’t call them gods. They don’t deserve to be called that. They were slave masters.”

“Kassandra I don’t want to think about that right now.” Bayek struggles to ask, “How do you know all of this?”

“I opened Pandora’s Box, and I climbed inside. I know that you have the same bloodline as I. We may not be related, but we descend from these beings. We can open the Forge because we have Their blood.”

“No,” Bayek says. “I know my family’s blood for the past two centuries. If there are close ties to these people then it is almost nothing.”

“Yet the door has opened to no one else but us.”

“I don’t have renowned ancestors like you do, Kassandra.”

“You have enough for it to matter.” Kassandra’s cheeks are hollow in the firelight, and she says, brittle, “I can’t sleep here tonight. Ikaros.”

She leaves with the bird, and Bayek finds he can’t sleep in the Forge either. He gathers his weapons, calls to Senu, and takes off to the northern part of the island. He spends the next week thinking, hunting wild boar, and the only sound escaping his lips Senu’s name. He thinks about his gods, mostly. The knowledge that Kassandra has imparted to him tears at his mind, and when he returns to her, he does so with a decision. “Whatever Those Who Came Before were,” he tells her, “I will not tie my beliefs to them. My gods have the capacity to be cruel as does every living being, but I don’t worship them for their cruelness. I look to them for guidance, and for the strength and wisdom they’ve imparted to myself and others in my life.”

“Then we won’t talk about it again.”

And they don’t; Bayek’s thankful for that. She lets him worship, and he realises soon afterwards that she’s never made any inclinations towards worship of her own. The idea sits strangely with him. After that night, they begin to mock fight. Bayek hasn’t swung a sword in a real fight for decades, and his skills are mostly forgotten; even the muscle memory he had spent hours honing as a young man has deserted him. Sparring with Kassandra lets him remember, lets him build more muscle, become fitter until he’s back to his old self.

He does more than spar. He remembers what it’s like to move without sound. Kassandra is like him in that regard too; he had deduced that when she was telling him of her quest to take down the Cult. He practices that with her too, and one afternoon he says, seriously, “You would be a good Hidden One.”

“What makes you think I want to be a Hidden One?”

“You are one in all but name.”

“If you say so.”

Bayek is hunting five months after coming to Andros, and in the middle of his draw his bow breaks. He’s left dumb with shock, and the deer he was after darts away between the trees. Senu swipes for it half-heartedly, but the animal escapes. Bayek doesn’t know why he’s so surprised the bow’s broken, it’s close to two hundred years old, but the loss wounds him. He takes it back to the Forge and carrying only a brace of rabbits from the snares. Kassandra sits on the flatrock by the shore, a fishing line in the water.

“Did you get th—? Oh.”

“It’s just a bow,” Bayek says as she climbs down from the rock, but his voice is thick with loss.

Kassandra says, “I can fix it.”

Bayek holds up the dangling pieces. “Thank you. I don’t think you can.”

“Oh I can. Unless you want a new weapon?”

“How, though?”

Kassandra stands, putting a hand on her hip. “It’s not called the Forge for nothing. If I fix that, it’ll last for a thousand lifetimes.”

“I once was sold a pan that the merchant promised me every up and down way that by the time I was an old greybeard it would still look brand new. It rusted through within half a year and my wife was less than impressed.”

“I’m not a pot-peddler. Oh, how you _wound_ me, dear Bayek.”

“Ack, you dramatic.” Then, he says more seriously, “You would use the Forge’s tools, and I’ve seen enough of it to trust you would fix the bow. I’m not convinced I want anything made by this place.”

Kassandra pulls the Spear from her back and weighs it in hand. “You asked me how I kicked that man through the door in Byzántion. I did it using the Spear’s power. This was a thing made by Them. Your bow was made by human hands, and so it will not be like my Spear. The bow will still be made by human hands, but I will refine it, make it better. And it will last. If you agree I can Forge your other weapons to be like this, too.”

Bayek hangs his head and gives her the pieces of the bow. She takes them, and returns to the Forge. “Watch the fishing line!” Bayek watches the line. It’s almost two hours before Kassandra returns. Bayek reels the line in and takes the fish to her. Kassandra gives him the bow, whole and unbroken. “Have a go.”

Bayek nocks an arrow, and he can already feel the difference. The bow feels better than it has ever done, and when he draws the string back it doesn’t make a sound. The bowstring vibrates under his fingers; even the linen it’s made from feels different, tough enough he can’t push the impression of his nails into it. He aims at a distant tree, and when he releases the arrow it flies further, faster. It’s so fast and powerful the arrow doesn’t have the chance to stick and instead the shaft shatters against the trunk. Kassandra says a little in awe, “We should probably do something about your arrows.”

“What did you do?” Bayek asks in shock, looking at the bow. The colour is slightly deeper within it, the once flaking gold paint restored. He taps the bow limb with a nail, and it doesn’t feel like juniper wood anymore, more like Kush black ironwood.

“I told you: I refined it. Your other weapons?”

The hidden blade is the first thing Bayek surrenders; he won’t give her the _khopesh_. Not yet. The rust is gone from the blade when he gets it back, and he tests it, clenching his fist and satisfied with how it pokes between his fingers.

In the following days Kassandra starts to show Bayek the power of her Spear. With it, she moves far faster than he can comprehend, can seemingly disappear from one place and reappear in another. She grows stronger, can jump off heights that would kill anyone else and land without a hair out of place. When she straightens up from her latest jump, her face is soaked in sweat, and her skin has a grey hue.

“The Spear asks for a price,” Kassandra explains. “A small price at first, so small I used it for years without consequence. A small sacrifice, I would tell myself, and it was then. A burst of the excitement of a fight, and nothing came of it because I would build up that strength of excitement again quickly enough. You know how the blood pumps through you in a fight, how the fire doesn’t calm until it’s hours over. Then the more I used it, the more these small sacrifices added up, until the Spear became a burden to use.”

“Why not rid yourself of it?”

“I need it too much. I have become dependent on it. The Fates are amused to no end, I would think.”

Kassandra, Bayek soon discovers, has dreams. More than once Bayek wakes when Kassandra sits up in the night, her skin soaked with sweat and names stuck on her lips. “Deimos. Alexios. Layla.”

Bayek once asks, “Who is ‘Layla’?”

Kassandra looks around at him, and her eyes which had before been out of focus snap to Bayek’s. “I don’t … remember.” She rearranges the blanket about her shoulders and stands. “Sleep. The night’s not yet half done.”

He can’t fall asleep. He’s thinking about the name Desmond again, and the strange way Kassandra had brushed the topic off.

A year goes by, and Bayek is ready to leave. He can’t stand to be on Andros for another moment. He feels more invigorated than he has for years, and thinking back on it, he can’t believe he’d spent so long sitting in one place in the Sinai.

“I still wish to go to Rome,” he tells Kassandra one morning in summer.

Kassandra nods absently. “Your quarrel is with the empire itself, isn’t it?”

“The people behind it.”

“The Order of the Ancients,” Kassandra says, and flicks a stick from her fingers. “If the emperors are part of the Order I’m unaware of it. The people behind them though, their hands are stained. The man I would look out for is Tiberius Claudius Pompeianus.”

Bayek hums. “Tomorrow,” he says, “I’ll go to Palaiopoli and see when the next ship leaves. Are you coming?”

“I’m not sure.”

There’s a ship bound for Athens in four days, and Bayek barters passage for two people. That night he gives the Sanaa _khopesh_ to Kassandra to Forge. He waits in torment for her to return, trying not to imagine it going wrong. Kassandra reappears from one of the doors Bayek had noted on the first day, the _khopesh_ in her hands. The metal gleams like it hasn’t ever before. The discolouration of the blade that’s been there since he was a child is no longer present. He runs his fingers over the edge, and snatches his hand back when he nearly opens his skin.

“You see?” Kassandra says. “It’s the world’s greatest Forge. Your sword may not be made of the same substance as my Spear, but it’s pure now, and stronger. The way I understand it five elephants would have to balance on each others backs in order to break it.”

“Thank you,” Bayek says.

They pack, prepare food. Bayek itches to leave. The night before they’re to depart, he finds Kassandra slumped before Alexios’ shrine, her cheeks tracked with tears. “Do you ever,” she asks him without turning around, “find the grief for lost ones crashing on you like a tempest? You go on for so long and not worry, and then you’ll find something that triggers memory, and the sadness crushes you like a mountain?”

Bayek understands all too well. “My father, my mother,” he says, “my friends. Most of all my wife and son.” Kassandra turns around, and Bayek sits cross-legged, his back straight and his hands on his knees. “I lost my boy when he was no higher than my elbow. Nothing in my life has ever come so close to the anger I have felt then, or the grief.”

Kassandra’s hand hovers over the flowers, and her bottom lip trembles. “I …” She shudders, struggling to get the words out. “On the mountain, I only wanted … I killed my little brother, Bayek,” she gasps. “I tried to save him, but he was going to kill our mother, and I — He was one of Kosmos. In my heart he is Alexios, but in my memories he is Deimos, and how they feared their demigod. I did too. For the blood that we shared, and that they wanted to control.”

Bayek embraces her. He waits for Kassandra. She holds him first, then kisses him. He stills at first, and reciprocates a moment after. He hasn’t kissed a woman like this since Aya. There’s no passion behind what they do next other than for the feel of slick bodies between them. Afterwards Bayek stares at the ceiling, uncertain. Kassandra holds his wrist.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m unsure if I should have done that.”

“There is nothing wrong with being lonely, Bayek of Siwa,” Kassandra says. “Has it really been so long?”

It hasn’t. Sometimes Bayek would be with women, but Kassandra … He shakes himself before he stands. “Never again,” he says to her, firm with his conviction.

“If you’re worried about children, this … this long life has left me barren.”

“I’m not worried about children,” Bayek says.

Kassandra props herself on an elbow. “Your wife?” she guesses. Bayek hangs his head. “I’m sorry.” Kassandra leans back on her hands. “We both have people we miss and will never forget,” she says, “people we will never dream to forget. I’m not asking you to let your wife go, Bayek, but you must move on, for your sakes, or you will drown yourself. Humanity was not made to be isolated.”

The next morning they walk to Palaiopoli in silence. Bayek wants to talk about last night, but he can’t find what to say. Kassandra says nothing either. As promised the ship takes them to Athens’ closest port Piraeus, and immediately Bayek recognises the stink of Rome. Graecia has been under Rome’s rule since before he was born. Kassandra’s eyes are hooded as they step off the ship, and they circumnavigate the docks to avoid the officers asking for papers.

When they’ve passed the checkpoints, Kassandra stops. “I’m going to Egypt,” she says, “to find the places that you told me about.”

“They speak of nothing but death and ruin,” Bayek tells her.

“I want to see for myself, and you still head for Rome.”

It’s a parting, and Bayek takes a deep breath. “Rome is a cesspit. Come and find me, Kassandra, when you’re finished.”

“Hopefully it won’t be too long.”

“Hopefully.”

 

**_[KASSANDRA]_ **

It’s been three months since Kassandra and Bayek had parted at Piraeus, and two months since she’d set out for Egypt. She’s been to Egypt before; the first time she had followed Alexander’s army here four — no, she corrects herself, it would have been almost five hundred years ago. Once she would have thought that the change to these places over the years would shock her after being so long away, but it’s different, she’s found. She’s watched these places progress from afar, and it makes sense. Over the years too her memories of her life on Kephallonia, her journey to hunt down the Cult, most of it has faded so that she can recall only a few moments. Likewise she can’t remember much of Egypt, but she does remember the first time she saw the Great Pyramids and their guardian Sphinx. She thinks back on it as she steps off the barge and into the small village on the bank.

People notice her weapons first, and there are many raised eyebrows, and whispers. Kassandra is used to it, and used to fighting for her place. She’s faced worse in Athens when men hounded her for walking the streets with her arms bare, and has fought off people looking to punish her for the crime of carrying herself like a man. At times, when she needed work and _drachmae_ desperately, she used to dress as a man to find mercenary work and use the name Alexios to get by. She still thinks of it as a way to honour his memory. Today, she is beginning to think that disguising herself might have been a better idea. High above, Ikaros watches for danger; already he’s seen a group of workers shadowing her. Kassandra ignores them, and walks through the small docks. She can see the Great Pyramids in the distance.

She barters for food and waterskins, and sets off across the sand, a shroud over her head to keep the heat off. Hellas has its own dry heat, but never as intense as this. It takes almost two hours to reach the Sphinx, and how it’s crumbled since she last saw it sours her mood. It’s half buried by sand, and so she moves on from it and heads towards the largest of the pyramids, where Bayek said he had found the first of his Vaults. Hyenas laze in the few spots of shade, too hot and bothered to do much more than look at her, and for that Kassandra’s grateful. She reaches the slopes of Khufu’s pyramid and works her way around the base to the north side where Bayek had told her there was an entrance. Ikaros spots it first, and as Bayek had promised, it’s easy to see; the pyramid is in utter disrepair. Kassandra rests in the shade of the mouth of the opening, wiping the sweat from her brow.

“Off you go, Ikaros,” she tells her eagle, who’s landed next to her and cleans his feathers. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. Come find me later.”

Ikaros blinks, twitches his head, then goes in a whirl of feathers. Kassandra watches him disappear. She takes a swallow of water from a skin before she goes into the pyramid. She’s not worried about getting lost, Bayek had told her exactly where she should go and not to get drawn into the puzzle deeper inside. The way down into the Vault is through a crack in the wall close to the entrance. She keeps walking, searching the walls with her hands. She’s all too aware of the hundreds of thousands of stone blocks weighing down above her. She keeps going deeper, and deeper.

 _Where is this crack?_ She coughs as dust trickles from the ceiling. She then hears the whistle of wind, and she knows she’s close. She feels it a second later playing across her skin. She feels at it with a hand, and huffs. It was so small she doubted she could fit through. _Bayek did once, and so can you._ Kassandra pushes the Spear, her _kopis_ , and her other bulky things to the crack’s other side, close enough that she can reach through for them should she become stuck and have to go back. Then she wedges herself in.

Kassandra feels like she’s being crushed. It’s so tight she can barely breathe, and she wriggles her body through one bit at a time. “ _Malákes_ ,” she spits at the crack. “What in Hades’ name was Bayek doing down here? This is ridiculous.” She pops out the other side, wincing at the scrapes on her shoulders. They heal soon enough, but she’s more so annoyed at the crack. She places her Spear in its harness across her back once more, dusts herself off, and continues on.

The path goes down, and down, and down. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and the Spear hums. She’s getting close to something. She takes the Spear from her back and lifts it up. It starts to shine, and the light it throws out is better than any torch she’s ever used. It’s bright enough to illuminate the black stone walls that she’s stumbled into the middle of, and her expression flattens. How familiar this all is. The further she walks, the stiller the air becomes. The vast hum that would encompass any other cavern of this size is absent too, the only sound left her steps and her deep, even breaths. The few dust motes on the air hang suspended in the space. She’s seen many of these places in the world, from the Forge to distant flung ruins in Tamil. Never anything like this though. She can hear the workings of her own organs it’s so still and quiet, and shakes herself and keeps moving before it can get to her.

Kassandra hops down a ledge, rolls over a fallen block. At the end of the corridor she transverses she see a faint golden glow. She quickens her step. She emerges high above a room like the Forge, except all there is to see is a stone slab moved there by human hands, and a single black pillar etched with gold that has the markings of Those Who Came Before. Kassandra leaps down, grunting as the Spear’s wants jab deep into her. She hates the thing, but like she told Bayek, she needs it. The discomfort is temporary. The same feeling of emptiness from above is thick down here, and she stops a moment, cradling her head just to feel _something_. “Ikaros,” she murmurs, “I wish you could be here.” She understands now what Bayek had meant about these places feeling wrong. “Breathe, Kassandra … breathe.”

There’s been someone down here before her, and she doesn’t think it was Bayek. Faded chalk symbols are drawn on a raised section of stone floor, and in the middle of them is a sarcophagus. Kassandra looks it over once, then deems it unimportant. Old arrows litter the floor too, and she picks one up, twirling the shaft between her fingers. “You’ll have to tell me what happened here, Bayek. There’s a story.”

Done with the little curiosities, she turns to the pillar. Once she would have thought it to be made of obsidian for its colour and polish, but she’s familiar with the rock now, even if she doesn’t know the name of it. She can tell it slumbers, and she rolls her neck. “Alright, let’s do this.”

Kassandra touches the pillar, and gold light jumps into life, transforming into symbols in the air like the ones at the Forge. Bayek had called it _heka_ — magic. It’s not magic, but technology that she cannot understand. Six hundred years have taught her many things. She’s interrupted from her thoughts by a voice speaking in her native Doric Koine.

_Retransmission. Segment Three. Acquiring Contemporaneity. It has been ninety-five days since the Great Catastrophe. The messenger speaks._

This is nothing like she has ever seen. Kassandra is motionless, waiting for more. Silence reigns, and she is so still, so held in the moment she forgets to breathe. And the voice speaks again after a long, long time.

_This message is not meant for you._

The pillar explodes into fire. Kassandra lifts her arms to defend herself and is thrown backwards, tumbling over her head. And the pain is nothing like she’s ever felt before. Her hands are in agony, burnt to the bone. She can smell her flesh and singed hair, and the pain is inside her, sinking into every facet of her being, every blood vessel, every capillary, every cell she possesses. She howls, and the space makes her voice echo a thousand-fold. The only action in her mind is to reach for the Spear, and she grasps it with her ruined hands, begging it to take her pain away.

_Ho cur o s._

The Spear saps the pain enough for her to start thinking again, to stop screaming. She gasps for air, and shudders with relief as the pain of her hands is drawn into the Spear. New aches awaken, but they’re nothing. Nothing. The Spear’s want is little more then a gentle breeze on her skin.

_Y u ar one o t e slaves, yo r blo d laced wi h o s. So di ta t, y t you simila ties to Us ar unden ble._

Her unnatural healing takes a hold, and she lays on the floor, grateful for its solidity. As the time crawls by, she feels as if something is circling her, like a wolf around a dying lamb. She can feel it as if it’s a physical presence in the room, but she knows she is alone. At least, in the way that mortal men understand it. Her strength is beginning to return, and she can move herself again, push herself up on her elbows and arch her back, draw her legs underneath her. One of her vambraces is little more than a twisted lump of metal and burnt leather.

_Whe e a e you, hybrid creat e?_

Kassandra bellows, pushing herself to her feet and swinging around, the Spear alive in her healing hands. She points it at the pillar, and she feels a lash of hatred. “What are you, you snake-eating _fuck_ of a rock?” She strides towards it, her Spear raised, and the pillar crackles with lightning. “Are you the messengers that Aletheia spoke of, and because of you my destiny —?”

Two things happen. The first is that the Spear shoots a beam of energy at the pillar, something Kassandra had never dreamed possible. The second is another blast from the pillar that throws her to the floor again, and her eardrums burst. All she can understand is a high-pitch ring in her head, and before she is blinded, she sees against the white light from the pillar and the Spear’s bolt of lightning the outline of a woman dressed in billowing robes, her palms held out to either side.

_Hera?_

* * *

She falls. She is ungraceful, a tumble from the sky that never ends. It’s an age until she slams into the ground, and then pain hits her like a wall of water, paralysing her. She cannot scream, although her mouth opens and she feels the vibration of her voice. There is nothing. The pain permeates bone-deep, sinking agony hot as fire into her muscle. She gropes in the dark. She’s on her knees, blind. She doesn’t know where she is, can barely remember what she was doing.

And then, suddenly, she hears muffled voices. She crawls towards them, shaking, her progress pitifully slow.

_I can’t see straight. Desmond?_

_You want anything?_

_I want to neck myself._

It’s another one of her dreams, and she wants to straighten up. Her back is weighted down, and even she with her strength greater than that of any man, perhaps excepting Bayek, cannot lift it.

_Yeah, let’s not do that. You need to eat. I know you don’t want to, but trust me. Whenever I had a rough session, Rebecca would make me eat._

_This isn’t like her Animus. I can do so much more …_

She looses the thread, and she falls on her front. Then she’s yanked back as if by the ankle, the phantom hand of consciousness calling her back to reality. But Bayek’s name: Desmond. Desmond. Desmond. She fights to keep herself in the dream, but the voices, one male and one female, speaking with an accent she can’t place and a language unlike any she’s heard but still understands, have become muffled, like she’s underwater. And as she’s pulled back, more distorted voices speak a cacophony in her ears.

 

m̴̠͎̞͈̩̋̑̅ě̖͚̓e̢͖͙̥̳͍̎̒̅̇̀̆̏t̤̰̬̟͔ ̖ͮ̎͋s̵͈̗̔̅̊ͨ̇̔eͬa̍̔̓̈́ͫͥ҉̤͚͇͙n̴̯ ̀̽͏̲͙̱ả̺̩̘ͨṉ͚͖̻͇̣̆̍͗̈́d̴̞͙̓̈́ͤ̿ͪͩ ̙̘͓͈͓̫́̏̂ͅǹ̷̩͕͖͈͇̞͍̽ͦ̑ͣͫ͗a͔͙͈̼̖̿͒ͣ̓̓́͑͘t͗͟a̫͢l̮̠̝̲̻̒̒̂y̮̲͉̬͗̅ͯ͑̊̃͝a̷͈̝̟̮͎̬̻ͩ ̶͚̲f̢͍̙̥̪̏̅i͔̱͌ͩͨͥ̇n̲͎̦̙͍̰͞ḍ̴̓͆ͮ͂i͚̞͕̰̠̫̋ͭͩ̅̓ͤt̻̓a̯̥̥͛͒̔n̷͙̯d̢̠̘̖͙͍́ͪ̊ͪ͌̽̚w̔͐ͬ͊̐ͪ̽͘a̅̐͒ț̴͙͈̆̏ͨc͍̙̝ͨͥ̀h̨̰̮̘̱̐ͫ͐ͩ ͥ͞t̶̹̦̎̒͑ͅh̫̙̥̽ͦ́ͤ̈́̓ͦȩ̝̻̠͚̂̃̌ͩͥ͆̾m̻͑̇ͫ ̣̙͉͍ͫͧͫͬͧ̂ͭd͊̉̐҉͓͚e̼̞̹͈̞ͭͨͣ̽͞s̟͕̀̈̂ͯͩ͂̚͜T̜̟͊̈́̃̽̈R̶̯̩͍ͨ̑ͪ͌̑ͫ̒O͈͊̋̿͆Y͇̓̊ͩ͐̕ ̈̆̓ͯ͐y̫̹͇̖̺͈̬̋̆͑̆̔͋o͙ͤ̃͛͐ư̦̲̩͇̜̭ͬ ̤͉̫ͧ̂ͩͥ̔ͨa̛͋͛͋n̙̈d̦͚̼̙̞ͅ ̻̫̮̋͛́̃ͫ̓͆y͎̜͈o̯̞̐͊̆̌̆ṵ͈̬̜̻̜͔̈́ͫͦͯ̉̔r͉̻͈̝͛́ ̱͉̩̩̈͌̑̊ͭ̎c̓͐͂͝r̶ͮ̇e͕͂ͤ͝ë̢͇̣̰́͋͑ͫ̓͑ď̠̝̣̈́̚ ̧̼̟͎̮̳͗ͨu̓̽̎ͮ͏̩̙̪͙ṉ̈s̮̯̙͓̱͔̭̏̈͢t̘͉̹̝̝͇̃ơ͖̜̬̺̮̭͒̈ͭ̎̔p̼̪̠̼̻̫̮̉ͭ̆ͥp͙̹ͅͅä̘͍̜͔͉͈͎́͆͂̓͋ͧ͟b͚͒ͩͪͅl͕̪͔͇̻eͅ ̧̮͓͛͛̒̈́͂͌ͪͅă͎̱̖̮͚̖̿ͭ̐͋̐s͎̱̹̜̔͟ ̼̱̰̕l̢͇̭͋͗ͪ͒̓̄o̞̦̹̱̬̗͚ͯ̒ͣ̑ͫ̍̆ṇ̞̦͕̳͈̔ͦ͛g̢̙̘̯̯̺̓͆̈ͭ͂ ̺̳̝̮͖̃ͬ́̀̐a͕͔̠̮̪s̵̳̲ͯ͗̓ͬͯ̚ ͍̥̩̩̩̠͑ͅs̹͔̥̞̔h̳̮͈̪͗͋̈́͂̉e̠̟̮͍͗̈́̽͒ ̴̩͍̝̬̅̾ͣͤJ̜̐ͧO̢͉̪̻ͤ͒ͤA̸̭̭̋̅ͧ̒̉͌N҉̲J͍̥̇̕O̪̪̖̦ͣ̒ͩA̶̠͉͎ͦͅN̿͋ͦ̃̅҉͔̱j͕͝o͚͙̤̺ͩ͘a͖̮̠̱̽ͣ͛ͮ̒n̯͈̲ǰ̶̮͚̯̙̣ͯ̈ȅ̤̫̖̼͎ǎ̹̦͔͍̿ͧ̍ͧǹ̸̹͍̻̯̃n̖̫̦̻͂̉ͅe̼͕͗̑͛ͬ̉̚ ̝̭̙̫͙̜͇̄̋ͭ͠h̦͕̜̺̿å̘̲͉̥̩̮͛͐̊̄ͫ̄d̬̲̋ͧ ̲̓ͮ̆̈̚t̉̓̽̾̈̃h̙̗ͩ̃͘e͚̯̱͙͜ ̴̗̭̙ͬ͛̇ͨ̉̔ͣș̢͚͐ͯw̆̐̅ͧ̈ò͛͊͟r̸̥̲̯͇͙̞̩d̮̳̭̪̦ͭ͐̑ͬ͝ͅ ̺̹͐ͬ̾̾̋͢g̮͇̖ͬͮ͆͑͐̐͋aͨ́ͤ̓̕l̥͙̑ͭȉ̼̼͇̱̺̜͓͐͗ͪ̌ͪ͐n̳͙̻̯͇̮ͩ̅͌̈ȧ͓̅̇̕ ̬̬̫̯͔ͫ̂͜f̶̗̺̯̘̗̈o̵ͭ̌́̍ͣ͊̋r͎̻͍̼̟̮̩̍̊ͧͮ̉ḡ̞̠̪̲̉̒̓̚͘e̻͔̮̲̱͍̩͆̿t̮̯̭͙͍̅ͩ̍ ̠̯̮̦̯̹̮a̲̭̣̞̱̖ͨ̍̂͑͆͑b̬̠̖͘ͅO̧͎͔̜̤̻ͨͫ̾̽̓͌U̫̦͓̠t͖̩͑ͯ̽̋ ̹̤̪̝̜̹͇̈̽͐m̬̺̹̱̠͑ͧ́͋͒̇͌ḙ͎̩̃ͮ͂̑ͮ̚͡ͅ ̴̹̘̫̜͓̤̈̐̀͛̒j̈̔ͧͥ҉͈͕͕̪͍͇̠ŭ̮͙ͥ̐̓̓s̳̭̦̹͌ͨ͌͋t̽̑ͯ̈́ ̸̼͍̩̳̟ͮ̓͐̏͒ͣs̓̐ͭ͝ą͕̫̻̥̣͂͑ͧ̀̚ͅv̟͍̇͑̇ͮ̚͞ͅͅeͨ̌̂̔s̮̼̯͖͆ͣ͋͗̂a̙̼͙͇ͮ̇̊ͯ̇ͧ͛v̝͙͕͑e͇̼̦̙͆ͨͪͅs̶͈͕̲̦̆̏͊a̷͖͍̯͔͊̇̍ͩ̾̅v̼͐͆̓͐ͦ̓ͅě̦̘̮͓͇̺̓̅ͩͪ̓ͅs̱͉̤̫͉̦̆ͭͧͦ̉ͨa̮̲̺ͨ͂͌̍͆̚̚͘ ̜̲̓̃̌̏̇̅͊͞k̂͗̌҉̰̹̳̻̘oͩ̓̑ͬ̃͗͗d̛̯͎͔̳̿̈ͅͅỹ̦͔̫̪̇͌ ̅̈͐͛͞i̙͓͐͗̃ͪ͊’̟̥̭̥̝̠̗͛ḿ̔̿҉̮̘ ̈́ͫ́҉̠̲̲͓g͎͚̥̤ͫ͢ͅo͕̅ͨ̀d̙̫̯̹͛̒̓̈́̄̓ ͂ͬ̊͐҉̱͖͇i̢̯̣͔̞͙̰ś̘͇͎͓͈̞ͤ̆͆̒ ͚͓̳ͯ̏̆ͮ̍̾tͤͩ͒ͫ̾ͣ̈́ͅh͖͙̯͕̙̜̊ͭ͒̇ͤ̓͑-̜̘̩̒̏̔̚͟h̴̲̞̤̹̭̻̪̉̃̿ͥ-̙̪̫͈̙̗͕͐̀̿̉̾̆h̡̳̭̪̹͂͒̊-̸̜̹̜͖̦̭͍͒aͬ̐̒̈́҉̼̯̦͍̜̣̗t̷̯̓̅͊̆̇͌͑ ͇̹̭͙̣̀͂̽…̠̮̫̙͚̪͌͌̍̿̕ͅ ́̑͒ͫ̉͑i̟͈̭͉ͣ̓ͯ͐ͫ͂ͅs̤̏ͦ͡ ̎̑ͩͨ̏̆͊͏t͈̻͚̗̰͖̞̽̔h͍̩͚͚ḁ͔͍͕̩͗̏̇̂͌̈́t̳ͩͯ͑̉ͤ͐͑ ̝̝͖̝͐̇̽̉̚͞y̰͓̤̔ͧ͛͘o̥̤̲̺͙͔ŭ̫̖̈́̂̀ͬ ̳̟͇̫̄͆͋ͥͪi͍̩͖̲͙̇ͪͪͤ͆̓́ń͏̯̟͉̤̮̦̪ ̷͙̞̹̖ͬͯͨt̖̯̣͚͍͎̅̏͛h̠̹̺e̫̯͇͈͎͇̹̎͠ ̜̖̩͉̃a̖̩̹̜ͧͅņ͍̯̔̓̑ͭ̏i̖̝̼̇̑̀ͭ̌ͨ̃m̶͚ͨ͒̈́̓ͭ͆ͣu̡̥̘̞͍̦͊ͤs̗̖͔̼̹ͅ ͓̝̺͒ͧ͒̂͆̾ͣ͜ͅdͮ̽ͤ͝-̦͉̬̜̮ͦ̾͂̑́͟d̲̳̙̼͔̟͌ͩ͋͠-̱͍̏̎̈͜d̯̖̟͎͖̯̳̏ͪ͋͛̑͊o̖͇̰͛̌ͣͧ̂c̛̏ͪ́t̉̕o̲̤͇̯̫ͩ͐̐͆͋͋r̪͎̣͔̥̎̑̅̅ ̜̥͙̠͇̘̠ͭ̏͂ͦ̆̔ͮv̙̌̅͋ͦ̂̑i͔̗͐͊͋͂͐͗ͭḋ̙̗͖̰̩͉͗i͔̳͙͖̝ͧͯĉ̫͈̳̮̺͙͆̆ ͦ͏̰̩r̺͉̭̪̺͇̞̅e̵͉̲͋ͮͥͪ̌̎q̢͈͗̓̆u̼͐̈̂̓e̦̩̙̳̱̤͌̂͐ͭͦ͊s̯͙̲̳̮̲̤ͮ̓͘t̳̥̓̇̂e̸͉̥̲͙͎̺̖d̋̅̅̾ͯ҉̻̦̪͈̜̥̟ ̻͍̍̽̐ͥ͛̐͑t̤̮̠̩͍̥͔͊͂͌̒̍ͣ̐͞h̘̪̋̈̍̐͗͝å̘̭̭͇͇̫̭͋͛̚t̩̅̄̉͐ ̯̜̭͈̎ͧ̕ÿ͓̣̼͙̖̼́ō͚̖͖ͬͤu͚͗̌̋͆͌ͅ ͍̤̣̑̇b̰ë̖͙͔́͐̎̇̆ͯ ͕̭͕͉̮ͣ͐̓ͯͥ̓a̤̜͈̘̳͊ͬͩ̑̉ͅl̢̘̩̘̘͑̓ͬͧͭ̈́ͥl̛̪͎͔͖͓͈ͧ̈́̉͂̓̈́o̱̳ͫ͒͌́͋͋w̫͇ͣ͂ͭeͭ̒̃̎̚d̯̱ͭ̏t̶͔̝̜̦̙͂̊o̩͙̝͌ṙ͔͍̣̋̆̓̂ͧe͔̭͙̯̲̲ͯ́ͮͭ̾̀m̺̖͙̜̟͙ͥ͑̍̈͢a̮̝ͭi͓̦͎̖͂͋ͯͭǹ͙͓̮̉̊ ̝̳̟̭̰͓ͬͤ̈ĩ͏͓̠̮̞͇͚ṋ̞̾͝ ̢̪̪̤̯̹i̵͙̓̚t̗̩̮͉̾̆ ͎ͮͩF͉̞̥̯̠͊̔̌̑́̒Ö̜̬̟ͥrͮ̊͂̊ ̞ͤa̰͓̙͍̩̹͔̐͋̋͌̂͋̊s̤̱͙̟̫̼̔̽ ̶̰̦̯͆̓l͚͓͙̟̈́ͯ͌̕ȏ̀̓̆ͤ̌҉̦̮͚̪̟̹̟n̰̦̪̪͚̘ͦn̘̺͉̱̞͒͟ṋ̖͇͗ͨͯ̾͌ͦn̪͉̘̗̳͐ͫ̏̃n͈̱̝͉͐ͫͪ̍͜n͍͔̲̻͌ͅg͉̠̭͎͉̥̺ͬ ̚a̛͔͇͚͚̞ͪ̓ͣ̐͊̅s̆͊́̉̈́ͦ y͇͍̬͇͓̲͍͐̾̃̊͒ͦ̅o̬u̿ͫ̈ ̆̇̓ͣ͞ẘ̯̪ͧ̎ͦ̓ͬ͘a̰͈̠̯̤͆̀̊̈̇̈́͘n̯̼̫͔͕̦̈́̒̂̋͂͗ͦ͢t̛̬̬̅̂̆̔ͥ͑͛e͈͉͍̩͚ͬ͑d̖̹̹͈̓̽̎͠ͅa̛̗͎̼͕͈͉͔ͬ͐ͨͯ̽͑͌ș̝͙̩̠̺̿͌̉͡ͅa̘̗̯͒ͯ̄ͅr̨̼͔̠̣̳̔͛͒̀̓e̟̬͇͎͓͚ͭ͛̒̓ͫ̎ͮw̷a̯̗̲̒͟r͇͔͔̩͎͕̍ͭͭ̋͐d̠̟͖̉̔͒ͦ̎͜ f͑̋̒͗͗õ̞̲̠ͬͬ̋͂r̲̻͚̰̼̘ͮ̓̄͊ͧͅ ̞̫̦͍͇̻̥ͦͭ͒y̸̰̜̲͈̘̜ŏ̧̰̠̘̑̊̌ͤü̸̫̞̘̱̭̦̭ͯ̏̿̈͆r̫͔̮͈̂ͦ̒ ̦̫̼͖͖̝̭̃͐̈͋ͪs͇̺̣͍̿ͮ͗̄͑͠e̼r̙̺͇̼̓v̘̼̪̋ͭ͠i̭͈͠c̠͎͎͇̳̬ͪͦ̐ͩe̤̲̟̣͈̩̥ͮ̈̎ ̐t̢̼̠͔͖̘̪͎ͨ͐͋ͥͩͧͬh̶͓̤͍̗͔̥̝ͯ̇e̥̫̦͈͇̠̥ͩ ̻̠̍̏̅͘ō̞̤̗͍͙͉͒̓́̈́͟n͉̰̪͖̳̩̪̒̂͌L̦̤̝̓Y̶͌ ̢ͯ̽r̟͈̜͉͎̫̭̂ͧ̊̈͗ę͕̤͗͂͌̉̃ͤ̽a̢̦̿ͣͭͨ̌ͅs̵̪͈̝̻ͦ̀õ͔͍̗͎͕̥̌̂̈n͙̟ ̫̙̫̯̬ͧ͑̅ͯM͚̞͔͕̙̻̍̓̈́Ḭ̼Sͭ̂ͤ͗̌͝Ṯ̫̒ͣ̍ͯE̩̰͎͔̙̣͈ͣͭR͔͇̺̰̝͎͛ͩ͐̂ͬ̑̉ ̝͖̹͕̦Ċ̡̼͕͚̳̗͙̂̌̽̊̈́̎R̰͈̘̮̤ͫ̓O̳̙̖̣̖̐͑̏̑͜S͚̹̥ͣͥ̓̿̎S͖͇͇̳̖̽ ̮̥͊͞t̥̊h̲̺ę͍ͭ ̳̤̥͇̜̘ͫr̞̤̔ͤͧ̍iͤ̈́̾ͥ̍͏̤̗̜i̭̮̣̘͇̺̰͟i̬̪̥̱͂͊̃̍̿͛i̵̓̽̎ͦͣ͆̔i̯̤̔̌̐ͯ͐͜ͅï͈͕͎͙̳̬̻̀ͬ̊ͮ̽̐i̳̓̃̆͛̏͛g̟ͤ̑̌ͬ̿̋h̬̗̼̥̫̙̪̎̊ͧ͑ͭ͠t͈͓͙̤̙̂ͯ̆ț̩t̖̲̞̭̝͆ͥ̓̽t̅̋ͥ̆ͤ̈̚͏͚̜̳͉̩̯͎t͍͔͇̭ͩ̍t̪̹͂t̷̩̽ ̿͂ͫ̅t̞̘̙̖̻̉ͬ̓ͩͣo̜ͤ̽̚ ̽v͚̗͖̙̓͢o̢̥̰͚̞̭t̔ͨ̾ͤ͐̿̚͜e̛̼̮͓͈̖e̛̲͓̱͇̦̻̻ͫ͂̂e̲͛ͭ͌̔̚e̟̳ͫ̀̐ͨ̊eͭ̿͐ͩ͗̾҉̞̗̺̥̝̲̹ḛ͓̮͗͡tͫ̏͟e̘̠̣̗̞̠͐̆̆̈̇t͓͚̣͎̙̙̘ͩe̯̫̤̣̝̹̣̔̉̾͘t̷͖̰͇͍̗̞̗͂̏̓e͗̐͐̃̾͊̾ ̺̋̾͋A̪̬͌J̣͊̓͒̽̆ͫ̕c̪̱̤̰͇bͯͪ͏͖̦̖͔Õ̺̾̄ ͇̮̻̖̗͊ͯ͗ͮͧ̈ͤ͝a̼͋̍̓s̬͙̩̻̤ͦs̠͔͔̬̖͚ͩ́̃̏͞a͈ͮ̐̈̒͒șs͚̻̺̥̓̈́̏̀͐̂́͞a͉̔s̰̝̬ͣ̊ͬ̄s̮̺̼̣̗͋͊̆̆͌ͮͧ͘ǎ̭̓͆͋ͨ̇͘ş̹̠s̭ͯ͒̈́̿i͎̞̠̘͖̜ͨͣ͐ͨn̠͕̖̻͓̟͉̎ͬ̇̍̍ ͯͨ͋̍͢c̳̪̰͔̾̏̒h͇ͦͦͫ̾r̥̗̎̐͜i͆͗͋̈́͛̀s̩̝̲͆̐t͍̪̤̾̐ͨͯͨ̎m͈͇̼̯̦̓̆͂ͮ͆̐̈́a̰̬̼̖̖̭͙͐͛̍ͪṣ͍̬̘̘̹̊͊̿͊ͨ ̖̤̬̯̄̌͒̅ͯͯ͝d̗̮̩̻̖̈́̓̄̓ͬ̃ͣi̧̊ͥ͗͋́ͥ́v͏̖̮̫̦̬i̦̯͍̪ͨ̇ͯͤ̊̈n̰͔̟̮̎̎é̟̟ͮ ̜̘͚̘r͂͌̈͏͈̯ȋ̥̼̫͍̪͗ͬͥg̵̠͚̠͍̪̠h̥̰ͮ̒̊ͯ̋̕t̼̫̼̋͑̓ ̯̮̩̤͈̝̞̈͑̒͑͂ͭ̋̕o͔̪̹ͩ͡f̥̬̩͓̺ͣ͛̄̐̐͐̃ͅ ̴̘̜͉̘̥̞ͭͣ̄̄͊̋̊ͅk͕̻̩͎̦͖͗̌͛̑̌̃ͥi͇̙͌̈́̿̔̃N̥̖̫̠͖̞̭̍ͩͩ̅G̖̺͎͓̞͕͗s̱̻̗͖͙̒͐̄̾͌ ̴͉͉̲̈̈̌̔ĭ̝̞͔̼̜̆ͣ͌͗͝s̯͇̣̣͕̬ͧͦ͂̎ͫ͡ ̞̣͚̻͛̌͆͋ͬ̑͋ͅͅn̯͚͙̟͔̓͊̔͡ô̗͈̰̍̈́͐t̢͔̳͛̃̊͒͆͆ͫh̅̅ͪ͏̪͕̠͕̪i͏̜̙͔ṅ̢͇ͬͬ̇̆͋g̹̱̖̟̘̹ͬͮͩ̂ͧͨ̉͘b͋͗ͫ͒͌ͅu̮t͖͉̩̞́ͣ̉͂ͅs̝̥͍̙̣̊ͭuͮ̈̂͗̑͏͈̳n͇͉̹̘̙̏-̢̰̥̼̤̹̈m̪̻̳̞̔o̼͕̣̙ͥo͎̱̥̺̙͔̬͌ṋͭ̌̓̋ͩ̔̚-̵̖̟̼ͧ̉ͬ̈̒s̹̣͙ͬ̂̂ṷ̠̹̣͇͐̓ͭͮ͛̉̌͝n͓̖̩̘̙͖̈́͆̓l̶͈̮̣͆i̶̖g̹̭̥̯̝͓̳͘h̋t̮̫̰ͤ͂ͤͭ̏ ̠̑͑͐͛ͭͦͣo̤̠̳̝͖̳̾͡n̷̬ͦ͆ͣ ͤͣ̒̃ͫe̯̞̺͚͂ͣ̋̽ͩ̊̈͢r̦̼͎̠̄͐ͩr̛͚̺̼ͥͭ͊͋e̸s̙̖͓͓̪ͧͬ͑̍͛ ̙͇̥͈̺̓ͬ̓̾̄̚a̫ͬl͔̫̲͛͆̿̽̅ ̶̯̫̖̞͇̍ͤ͑͐̑ͧͅͅė̟͔̩̚͟d̼̉ͩ͟ ̧͕̬̫̭̞̮̪̀̅̎̉r͔̫͒̒̎ͤ͗ͯ̋̕u̟̖̤̣̫͗ͬ̓͑͝e͓̙͕̪̮̼̿̓̅̏̌̚i̸̳̖ͤ̌͐̓ͩs͖͈͆͛͞n̨͙̦̩̗̭͉̮̄ͥô̸̠̙͎͛ͬ̈́̏̆̚m͎̭ͩ̎̈ͫ͊̋͟ ̸̝̠̼̝͈̼n͚̯ͥ͛ͣo̝̮̤̦̽̑ͫͪ͛̚ ͣ̂̎ͦ҉̭̣͖̪o̗͈͇̪̥̰̟͡n̢̗̮̾e̶̖̦ͧ̀͐̾ ̸͔͋e̖͍͚̜͋͐͡l҉̠̟̖s̗̣͓̪͈̾͌͆͊s̬̗͉̭̬̞͔ş̺̭͈͓̓ͣs̭̙͉͉͗͛s͇̝̣̙͓͔͙ͪ͑ŝ̵͙̠̥͇̥̘ͤ͋̒̆̓ͅs̖̞͍̻̽͑̾ṣ̄ͭ̍ͧͪ̑ͣs̛͉͖̏̌̋̽̄̉͐e̺͍̗̫̋̓̆̑̄̆ ͖̜̠̟͒̂͛̚w̧̻̟͇͉̹̯ͬͨͅi̻̱̰͇̟̱̬̔͆ͯ̅l̶̳̯̮͔̓l̤̪͖̳̣͆̈́͒ ̬̖̠͔̪̕u̯̲͔̬͓̝͌O̘̠͇̦̒̊̋̔̔Y̿a̖͂ͨ͗͒̎̊̀͠b̨̲̹̱͕̯̓̄ͫ̉͌ͥͅ ̼̯̲͙̫͂ͩe̛h̡͖̬͍̏ͅt̴̯̹̤̰̻̅̐̌ ̯͚͕͎̝̬̬̊̃̄̂̅͂ͤį͎͉̦̺͖ͯͫ̌͒̈́̓s̝̮ͨͩͤͥͨ̕t̽̇̆͋̚a̝͓͚̤̥̙̓ͣ̎ͩ̏ͮ͟ ̭͐ͣm̪̅͒̓̊͞y͒̕ ̊͛́͘m̶͈̜̺̟̙ͩ͗o̠̻̖̮ͭ̈ͪ̑ͭ͆͘t̰͗̿ͣ͒͒h͍̘̮̬̺̞̍ͯ͜ͅe̛̞̻̼ͥ̅r͔͉͕̱̺̖ ̵̩̗̥͔͊̈̄̃̈́ͬm͍̼̦͚̬̳̯̿̓ͣ͢y̼͉ͦ͋̑̓͒̓̚ ̮͖̩̋͡m̳̺̦͇̔̅̌ͤ̾͗a͎͍ͅk̜̫̣͙̳ͦͅè̝͍̒̌͋ͧ̈́ͯ ̫̮̮̺̀̀ͬ͒ͣ̊͡t̢͓͙̙͔̋͂͐̃ͨ͊̇h̸̥͎̥̘̮̿̑̀i͍̠̫͔̥̠̬ͤ̄s̷̺̯͉͇ṡ͙͓͙̖̑̿̈́̍ͤͧh̫͖͈̜ͩ̈̊̄i̷̟͙͔̞̥̇t̩̝̝͒ͨ̏̊̆ͧͧt͉͕͖͌̓ͫͧ̉͟ͅy͖̤͙̫̯̻̯ͥ̊ ͍̼̗̾ͨ̚̚͢o͔̣͔̟͊ͧ̑͝r̖̥̝̜̘̄ͮạ̹͐ͅń͓͇̝̩ͯ̍͐ͨg̦̦ͤͧͩ̅̽̉͂͢e̬̹̞̠͙ͦͭ̀͛͝Rͮ̂͛̈̄A̰̤͗G̓́̎̂̇҉̻̳̦̦̬oͥͫ̿̋҉̟̝f͔͙̼̼ ̡̳a̼͋̊ ̛̰̄ͩ̓̈́̑͗̄u͍͎̼̳̾ͮͯ̾͘ͅn͏̫̮̹̫̯̙̗ȉ͆̄ͯ̓̓fͮo̴͎͎͐̈́͗r͓̿m̬͛̏̾ ̣̰͍̭̙̭̍͂͑l̮̙͌͒ͪ̂ͩ̏ͭo̬̦̦͉̩ͦṍ̰̜̲͖̰͔͚̍̾͢k̡̼g̫̲ͯ͜o͚o̲͈͇͓ͫ̎̏ͧͧͤ̃ḍ̰̹̩̦͉͆͡ͅ ͇̺̿ͬ̾̋b͈̘͙͙̬̘͙͋̄̓̔̄e͐̏̌ͤ͂͘g̰͂̀ͅg̫̓̀̆ĭ̺͗̌̚͡n̗̟͔͕͇̈́̈́’͆ͬ͊͑̇̔҉̟͓̤ ͖̊͋ͧ͛͗͘y͙̆̀̇o͉͈̹̔̾̋̋ͦͪu̮̞ͮ̊̃͘r̝̺͓̠̚ ̥̼̜̫̟͢p̯̭̯͋̂̃͐̐ͮ͘a̮̦̼ͬ̓̏̽r͉̗̀ḋ̻̦͗ͯ̉̆̈́̓o͎͎͋ͯ̓͋ͭ͋̇n͉͉̫͞ ҉̞̤ͅa̫̟̫͇h̙̻͈̟̟̞̰ ̧͇̝ͮ͑̓͒̅ͧͫy̢̙̠̚ẽ̤̺̱̗͓͚͛ͤ͐s̟̺̝̼ͫ̽̊͛ͧͅ ̖̐̿̓̇́̐ǐ̫̠͖̹ ̤̘̺̖̝̒̉ͧ́̚r̨̝̠͐̽̎͐ẽͬ̈́͌҉̪͉̠c̸͈̍ͦͤ̂ͥa̘͓ͯͥͣ̚l͎̭̬̰̗ͬ̍ͤ͜l̂ͬ̌͏̙̲͎͕̬m̈͆͊̑̋̏͆҉̪̹i̮̖̭͖̽̚s̘̳̥̫̟͈̞̿̐ͨt̴̰̹̹͓̤̪̠ͮ͗e̝̭̠̦̥̭ͦ̆̅̓̏ŕ̗̩̳͎̜̍͠ͅ ̹͖͍̺̙̺͍̆̅ͣ́͌ͥd͍̯͕͖̠̗̉͊ͅu͓̮ͮͩͩ͆͊̅n̫̗̳͖͒c̠̣̣̘̮̽ͦ̒a̸̗̟͑̏͑n̦̮̫̹͚̤͂̓̚w̨̻̻͕̒̐ä̴ĺ͎͕p̖͎̫̰ͮ̾̉͘o̩̎ͬ̍̌l̙͖̣͔̬̖̉e͎̭̰̠ ̷̽̓̽̓̀͗ͭi̵͇̠͍̬̪̿̄̒ͩ̊̾ ̬̞͉͈̭͚ͫ̀ͩ͛̏m͕̲̑̒ȋ̧͇͎̓̅s̞̐̂́̚͡ṡ͖͎̼̺̝͑̌ ̧̻̯͚̿ͥS̤̞̟͈͔̐̇̊h͖̩̫͇͌̾͘I̛̿ͣͣͧͦͮT̪͉B͔͔ͤͯ̕I͔̤͇̹͙͙͔r̨̻̞̜̠̺͕ͫ͐͆̍̊̉d̞ͪ ̷̫͛ͫͦͦ͊̽͑n̯͚͉̣o̘̒ͫţ́hͫ͠-̜t̼̗͍̝̱̳̬̀̆̽̀̊̑h̖̆̓ͪḯ͖͚͖́́ͧ́͆-̢̬̩̯̪̙̎̽ͮͨ͐t̯̙̲̙͈̿̆̽̓͘h̬͖̔̿̉ĭ̧̯̞̩n͐͐̅̆ͪ҉͇-̖̺̟̤̩̽͡ḯ̸̟͉̺n̳̎͒̏͌g̹̹̗̬͖ͩͯ͟ ̻̯͈̻ͮͦ̽͋̆ͧ̈́i͙̠͉̰̭ͩͮ̔ͮ̚d͌ͥ͏̫̦͔̣͇͈̙ŏ̖̳͊͐a̞͚̜̅̈̒ŝͩ͏̜̫̦͚e̦̼̩̗̮̜͌̍͐͒̒̚c̷̞̪r͉̩͎̝ͥͣͮ͐̎ȩ̖̲̰͓͋ͥ̎̂t͕̮͎̺̆̅̃̿ͅ ̼̪̎ͧ̈ͬ̐̓j̯͊̎̓e̺̻ͤ̋͋̒̉ṱ͔͓̮̠͌̿̊̒̚̚t̩͉̔̄̒͐̌̔ỵ̦̍̀͌ ̝͕͛̏ͩͯ̓͐̚m͚̦̹̪̐̓è̩̜̗͔̓͡s̳͉̲͇̻̝̈́̊ͣ̒̐̔̄͡s͉̰̙͓̺̪é̑̆͏̪̙̲͓r̷̮̣̭̪͖̭͆̓̓e̡͉̤̘̹͑ ̲̳̟̱̹͕͚̿̃͌̏ṅ̼͍̤͓̞̑͒ė̗̘̤̥̰͚͙͘a̧̻̺͉̫͇̎ͩ̉̓ͅr̬̝͙͇͕̆͑̔͑̈̌͐-̻̦̻̜ͅv̶̻̙͙͕̺̏̎̈̐̓̈̽e̱̓r̘̹̲͍̺̒͒͐̚͘y̸͉̘͓̫͑̄̀͆-̳̹̟ͤ̑̾̔ͬͅc̲͆ͦl̵̻͆̄ͬo̤͎͖̭͌ͦͅș̛͕̦͎̝̲̞ͪ̒̃ͨͧ̐e̪̬̐̒͗ͪ-͓͘ơ̞̭̟̲͎ͮͯ̏̉̅̀n̰̩̐̄ͤ-̜̮̗͎ͫ͋ͯ̓̍͟t̩̻̺ͪ̏͒ͭ̓o͍̹͎͛͗̆͛̈́ͅp̴͔̞̂̈́͗͂̅̍ ͇̩i̓̂͌҉̲̹s̯͍̦̥̋̓̈́̓͋ͣ̌o̜ͥ̀̉̃̅̓̚l̡̘͚̝̗̰̦̜a̤̞̗͍͔͖͐̓̅ ̡͍̣̠̱̦͍̀̾͛̽t͍ĩ̙͒̇b̘ḛ̢̪̣̍ͭ͊̾ͦ͒r̞̼͓̖ͥ̈i͒́̎͏͚̰̘͍̝͔̺n͏͉͚ả̦̺̯̫ͥ̓͂̔ͫͅ ̖̰̪̮̙̙͚ͥ́ͮ̈́g̹͍̭͒͟l̮̖͎̞͖̋ͭͤ͐̐͑̔a̛̬͔̳̖̤̓ͬͮ̂ͮͫ͛d̪̠̔̊ͥ̑̐ͯ͂͝l̸̹̪͚̤̓̏ͭ̉y͒ͨ͊ ̹̮̘̪͚̜̟ͣ͗ͧͤ̕s̰̫͡ḁ̭͚͇ͮ̎͌̈̋ͣ̎c̱̦̤͛̓ͤͫ͘r͗ͮͮͨ̀̚̚҉̝̟̭i̯̐̾͑̓f̗̜̜ͧͧ͐͞i̭̣̟c͎̲͔̺̏̂̍͒͛ͯ̃e̢͖̫̋ͬ̆̃͊mͨ͌͌҉̺̘̪̟ͅÿ̢̖͉̠͎͍́̐͋̃̋̈ͨs̡̯̻̯ͯ̈͋͐e̓̓͊͑ͥ͞l̴̥̰̺̲͗ͣ̌̃̿f̟͚̘̟̺̀ͅ ̬̪̯̠ͩ͂ā̖̪̞̬̩͇̜̐͋͆̅̂ͩ͠n̈́͊͌͋̑͡d͈͓͚̞̹̄͌ͭ̇ͭ ̂̓̐͂̌m̡o̊ͧ͏͈̣t͋́̈͒̀͏̺̯ḩ̤̦͖̮̗̝́ͬͮ̿ͧͭe͐͏̱̯ŗ͇̌ ҉̭̬̖a̫nͥ̾͊ͥd͚̪̰͔̒̄ ̝̞̳͕̭̔̌͑ͥ̂f̦͙͖̜͉̳̦̽̍̕A̙͓̮̟̺̠ͦͩ̔ͧͩ̏T̢͉͇̘̰̖̈́ͅH̵̓e͕̪͊r̹̹͎̈́̓ͨ͂̆ ̄̋̑̆ͫȁ̳̟̄̏̿́͋̕n͍̭̘̣͉̈́ͤ̓ͤ̉̃d̖͉͓̝̲͑̈̽͗ ͔͓c̣͈h̠͓̝̬̃̆ͨĩ̤͇͎͍̙ͤ̓̔l̪̙̥̳̽͛̈́d̰͓͒̔͆͊ ͉͖̊ͮ̂͘A͒ͥͣn͓̝̆ͥ̏͗ͯD̈̆͆̍ͩ̚͞ ̣̆̔̎͑ͮ̒̋e͓͓̩͕̖ͤ̽͂ͭ̏ͅv̧̳̹̥̬ͮ̓ͧ̽̂e̛̖̮͓̓͂ͥr̶͕͔͕͓͍̒͊ͤ̏͌̉̚y̯̠̜̣͖̐̊̍̆̑o̙̫̦̲͎̐n̵̰̪͒ē͚̲͙̓̈́̊̿̒ ̛̐ͨͯï̢̟̦̰͍̯̺͎c̥͍͕̱͔͊͆̽ͤ̊ͣ̓͜ͅa̘̦͔͈ͩ̄̏̍̀̕r̸̞͍̬̄̔̎ḛ͚̮͇͎̭̈ͅf̎ṏ͖̝͇̼́̈́̚r͎̞̞̦̪̭͚̓ͨ͒̉ṣ̪̞͈̰̥̌͂͡ȏ̘̭͉̰̑͒̐̊̆̋ ͚̭͖̟̞͒t̓͛͘h̞̣̳̋̋ả̠̩̬̗̪ͪ̈̀ͥͫ͆̕t̛̠̩̰͍ͥ͌ ̲͍̳̭̻̤͚̔ͩ̒̀ͭṭ͙͙ͅḧ̟̬̭̜̥̾̌̕ͅe̮͉̤̥̦̞̣ͯ͗ͫ̏̀ͪ ̼̝ͯĊ̫̂ͨ̍͋̆R̜͔̥͙͈̘̀̃̒̇̉ͮE̙̘̱̘͉̩̊ͬͅe͓̺̰̞̬̖ͤ̇́ͧͩ͑ͭḏ̠̖̳͔̫͝ ̢̯̖̻͊̈́͂͋͆̐ͤl̬̤̥̗̃̃̾̑i̛̼̮̗͇̥͛̇v̶̙͓̍ͨ̇ẽ͇̠̎̿̉̈͒̋d͔͚̫̖̤͉̒̊͋̌̀̾ ̩̹̯̼̗͎ͥ̅́͗t̵͍̟̺̔ͬ̂l͊ͦ͗ͯͨ̓u̻̖̞̜͚̭̺s͙̙͉̀ṋ͔͇̠͍͉͐į̩̖ͭͩ̇̓͂ t̴͆̏ͮş̞̗͖͚̀̈ͯ̒a̶̰̞ͭͤ̃̃̉l̷̺͇ͪ ̎ͨͥ͐͗̊r͓͕͙̹̙u͐̋҉o̡̲̩̰̍ͥ̎ͤy͔̹̰͓̜̓̑̓̿̒͛̾ͅ ͕̘̓ͮͫ̕d̶͈̮̠̺̮̰̻ͪ͑͂e̺̙ͧ̓r̰͍̹̭̻̖̈́e̩͓ͦͅv̜͓̺̩͙́ͨͬ̀̇ͯi͙͖ͥͦ̚l͓̝̤̫̖ḙ͔͈̺͍̈̿̒̓ͤ͞d͎̙͉͕͚̄ͪͨ ͚͓͙̝̲̿̇k͙̕i͉͔̞͑̆ͮñ͝G̲ͫ̚A͍̭̤n̜̳ͅd͉̖̭̮̳̗͗͋h͇̩̍̽ͤ̓̆̐͗ị͚̫̱̱͞s̴ͯ ̭͗ͯ̆ͬ̊͟i͊̏ͮ͆̈̈n̞̬͉̼̺̝f̅̏̉͋̇ḯ̇̂̒ͮ̐͏̞͕̦̪d͚͔̜̯̞̱͋̍̎̏e̬͎̎̓́ͮ̾͜l͙͚̩̠̐͜ͅ ͯa͔̯̺̞̻̜̒r̵̎m̧̳̻̖̤͒̅͋y̵̭͇̯͒̅ ͈̪̙̟̰̣aͧ͛͐ͩͪ҉̳͙r͕̦̤̳̰ͩͤė̼͚͙͒͗̂ ̋ͪ͗̚w̢͍͖͒͛̆e̴̳͔̪̝̼͓̱ͧ̈͛̎̎-͖̗̼̬̉̏̈̓y̳͐͢o̝̝͕̺̭͔͔ͧ̍͂ͣ͒̚u͈̟̅̿͒-ͧͬ̄̐̆̈́S͚̯̳̘̯͓͆̊̊I͎͉̯̱͑́ͪ̂̑ͩL̢͈͕͕É̮̟̘͈̳̗̩ͮ̓̏ͣ̊ͮN̲̣̯͕͌̂͛̐͗̑C̘ͬ͂E̸͍̠̣̬͈̐ͣ̓̇͋ͤ ̭̻̼̭̦̤̿̑ͤͧ̅̾̔d͎̱̹̘̺̰ͯ͜ơ͍͖̤̘̖͑n̖͎̮̐̾ḙ̬̼͙̩͋́͒̄͢ ̴̮̼͕̪g̓o̶̰̱̗̠̫ͦͪ̾̉̈̚ ̮̥̩͓͖̤͛ͦt̥̽͗͑̑̓o͇̲̩̔͑͞ ̄ͣ́͒҉̥̼̙̥g̈́̍̐o̬̖̳̹̖̜͊̂ͥͩd̹̠̳̱̪̝̳̒͐̿͊̾͠ ͈̦̺̱̺͉͕͛ͨj͔͉̰̿̊̌̄ͅu̟̤̼ͯ̊m͕̲̠͍̘̟͉ͬ̓͂̆p̢͔̏̉ͪͦ͆̚ ̜͎̞̹̌̊̈́̇̓͑̋͜ͅF͉̺ͮ̈̒̇̃ͯ͐Ä̧̯̘̣͇̼́ͯT̪͖̦̞͎̟̦̓̋̏̈́Ȟ͔̜̱̳͖͕͇̒̎̿̿͡Ę͙͙̀͗̾̎ͧ̚R̓̏ͮͥͤ̏̚͏̜̟̠̯

 

* * *

_Layla? What’s going o—?_

* * *

Kassandra wakes in pain. Tears slide out of the corners of her eyes, and she rolls over, her back covered in old burns. So, she’d died. Her body is still mending. Saliva hangs from her lips as she crawls to the wall, scrabbling at the sand and making her slow way over to support. It takes a long time to cover the distance. Fire licks up her back as she presses herself up against the wall, and she cries out at the pain, her voice echoing against the stone. She doesn’t care that she isn’t wearing so much as a stitch of clothing. For now she doesn’t know where the Spear is, and so she must endure the pain until her wounds have healed.

It seems to take a lifetime. Her chest rises and falls in shallow pants, and she cries out again as a shard of rock slides from her side, wet with blood and stuck with sand. It’s like the fire of the tree she had died under. She had lived long enough to feel it eat through her armour and caress her shoulders. Perhaps she passes out, or maybe she dies again. Whatever happened, a moment seems to pass, and the pain is less. Kassandra uses the wall to get to her feet, and looks for the Spear. It doesn’t take long to find, she searches for the hum it emits, and follows it when she finds it. It’s buried under a foot of sand, the handle all but destroyed, but the head is just as perfect as it’s ever been. Kassandra curls her lip in disgust, and whirls around to the pillar. It’s gone. She blinks, bewildered, but then she sees it, or what remains of it. She walks to it, and the fine rubble shifts beneath her feet. She kneels down and scoops up a handful. Whatever did this, it wasn’t anything human-made.

She searches the cavern for answers, and finds what’s left of her armour. Her Forged _kopis_ is untouched, but she pauses when she beholds the rust on the worked edges of her breastplate. She scraps her nails over it. Old blood flecks the leather. Her blood. The blood isn’t hours old, or even days, but _months_. Kassandra swallows, and her heart beats a little faster. The sand surrounding her is dark, with a wide radius. She knows why, it’s more blood, but the extent of it … Her fingers tremble when she picks up a shard of bone, and knows without a sliver of a doubt it belongs to her. It was as if the explosion had torn her to shreds.

The Forge or any of the other places she’s visited before haven’t felt so dangerous as this. There is only one other time she has been so terrified of Isu technology, and that was when she beheld the Pyramid in the Cave of Gaia, and she and Deimos had laid their hands upon it. She has to leave. Kassandra follows a distant light to the end of the chamber, a hallway not quite as long as the Forge’s, which leads to an Egyptian-made tunnel. She emerges within the small _mastabas_ at the foot of the pyramid, and as soon as she emerges, Ikaros swoops for her, shrieking in distress. Kassandra strokes him. “Shh, shh … I’m sorry, old friend. I don’t know what happened.”

Ikaros chirrups, and Kassandra bumps him under his chin. “I’m alright, and I’m glad you are too. I need a favour. Find something for me to cover up with and bring it to me?”

He returns an hour later, a light bolt of cloth clutched in his talons. Kassandra had been expecting him to take a drying shift, but this will do. She unravels the cloth, kisses Ikaros’ head, and dresses herself as best she can. Night falls as she treks back to the Nile, and when the stars emerge, she gauges their positions, and she rejects what she sees at first. She checks again, and the same thing presents itself. “No, no, no.”

She walks a bit faster, and jogs to the first person she sees passing over the sands. She ignores how the man stares at her, and she asks hurriedly, “What month is it?” The man splutters something in Coptic, and Kassandra wants to shake him. Where was Bayek when she needed him? “What. Month. Is it?”

Because from the position of the stars, it’s almost been a year since she entered the Vault of Khesesh Em Sesh Em Eeneb.

 

**_[BAYEK]_ **

“An Egyptian? So far from your desert sands?” The woman’s eyes gleam, and she leans towards Bayek across the small table they share. The rings on her fingers catch the low light of the den they sit in. “My, my; what _are_ you doing here? Are you a merchant? Or a fighting slave by those arms of yours? You certainly have the scars for one.” Her gaze lingers on the space of his missing finger.

Bayek moves his hand below the table. “Proximus said you had information for me.”

“You have my gold?”

Bayek flicks six pieces of gold onto the table, and the woman quickly takes them. When she speaks again, her voice is far more throaty and inviting. “Marcus Macrinius Avitus Catonius Vindex,” she says, tapping her nails on the tabletop with every syllable. “From Camulodunum in Britannia. He was commander of the _Ala Contariorum_ and —”

“And repulsed a push by rebel Lombard and Ubii into the province two winters ago and awarded military honours for it, I know this,” Bayek says. “I don’t need the context, just tell me of what he’s doing. Now.”

The woman leans back on her chair and recrosses her legs, looking at him with a sultry pout Bayek’s not interested in. “Not a fighting slave, then. All business with you. And what is your business with the man? No answer? I’ll assume the worst, then.”

“What do you care of it?”

“If word were to get out something terrible was coming his way …”

“I would know who’s tongue was running loose and remedy the problem.” Bayek’s blade snaps out, and he leaves it in the open for several seconds before retracting it. “I find and stopper leaks.”

“Very well — word is that he’s being eyed for the position of _procurator_ for all of Dacia Malvensis. Taxes, rents, all of the money flowing from Rome to here and back again goes through Vindex’s books.”

“Ey, and how did this Briton come to be the financial administrator for a region as large as this?”

“Rome is full of new men, dearest Egyptian, including Vindex’s family. Won’t you tell me your name?”

“Call me Amun if you wish for something.”

“Amun … I hadn’t realised your people still follow the old faiths.”

“Few do.” It had been a disheartening truth to learn. The old religion Bayek still follows has been turned away from, and new religions, Christianity in particular, had gained a large following in Alexandria and other cities. “Where is Vindex?”

“At the Tibiscum Fort, dearest.”

Bayek stands. “We’re done here.” The woman follows Bayek to the door with her eyes, and he takes a moment to gather himself before stepping outside. It’s the middle of the day, but the cold is gripping. Snow whips at Bayek’s robe, and he pulls his cloak tighter around himself, and his hood further over his face. He saw snow for the first time five years ago, and he’s never liked it. He feels the cold too much, shivers violently in it. Dacia’s mountains are the opposite of Egypt’s open deserts. It’s been seven years since Bayek and Kassandra parted, and he’s been in Dacia for almost two. He’s still not used to it. People knock each other’s elbows and stare at him as he walks past, no doubt wondering what he was doing in this place. Bayek’s not seen another Egyptian since he left Rome to pursue his leads northeast, which have taken him to the edge of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus’ wars with the Germanic tribes. He shoos away the chickens poking at his feet, and mounts his horse tied up outside the woman’s meeting place, a building little more than a shed with creature comforts inside. He kicks the horse in the sides, and the animal starts off down the road.

As far as he can tell, Vindex is aligned with the Order. Much like the Hidden Ones take the disenfranchised, the Order too practices it to some extent, preying on those frustrated with society. It makes Vindex a highly desirable asset to their cause, a man who is smart, cunning, and ambitious. The Order too has gotten to Marcus Aurelius as it had to Cleopatra. Learning that had been frustrating, but in a way, it had been inevitable. Bayek goes to Senu, who flies above him. He’s still aware of his body, and his vision is overlaid by what Senu sees. He’s had enough years to practice that it causes him no confusion. He knows where Tibiscum is. It’s nestled in a valley two days ride away, close enough to the Danube that if needed, a hasty retreat can be called and the Romans evacuate to friendly territory. The land is held by the Ubii and Lombard tribes, allies to Rome who have exchanged peace and protection for military aid. All in all, it’s the perfect spot for a Roman settlement.

Another horse waits several minutes ride outside the village, and the rider lifts his head when he hears Bayek’s approach. He’s a man in his early forties, half his face hidden by a red-brown beard. He’s dressed in ragged furs with a meticulously cared for hand-axe on his belt. He joins Bayek. “The old bitch gave you what you wanted?”

“Yes.” They speak Koine. The man’s is slightly broken, but Bayek knows enough to fill in the gaps. “Our deal stands as is.”

“Good, good.” His name is Hessaum, and he commands a large section of the remaining rebels that attacked Vindex’s forces two years prior. The deal between him and Bayek is simple: Bayek will help them drive the Romans back to the Danube, and in exchange, he will kill Vindex and keep receiving information on his and his associates’ activities within Dacia. “Where is he?”

“Tibiscum.”

“I could’ve saved the bloody gold. Of course the bastard’s holed up there. ‘Look at me: I’m whoring myself out to Rome by being their tax collector, and my post is at the crossroads —’”

“Have your forces meet me there.”

“And why aren’t we going together, eh?”

“If you want me to open the gates for you,” Bayek says, “then I’ll need to find out how. A host outside will keep the guards on alert.” He takes off, leaving Hessaum to grumble in the snow.

Two days later, Bayek is crouched atop a bluff, shielding his eyes from the sun and peering at the fort beyond. There’s a treeline surrounding much of the fort, the perfect place for Hessaum to hide his army. The fort is half-military post, half-town. That’ll be a problem. Bayek’s flown over the area with Senu, and he’s seen the townspeople, native Dacians and Romans alike. Hessaum’s forces rolling through here would kill many of them. Bayek wrestles with himself. He could just do it, he could sneak in and past the entire fort garrison, kill Vindex, and walk away. He could justify the burning of these people’s homes and their deaths with the fact that Hessaum’s men, if successful, would drive the oppression out of the area. He doesn’t want Dacia to become like Egypt has. He has a route planned out, over the days he’s found Vindex and learnt his routine. He could do it. He has a plan to disable the guards at the gate and unlatch the bolts keeping it closed.

A further two days after Bayek’s arrival, Vindex’s thousand rebels arrive and set up camp deep in the trees, away from where the townspeople foraged for wood and food. Hessaum finds Bayek leaning up against a tree and staring out over Tibiscum. “Well? You’re ready?”

“I’m ready.” Bayek has to do this. “When your men storm the village, do not touch the people who are there. They’ve done nothing.”

Hessaum scratches under his chin. “This is _war_. People get hurt and many will die. To ask me to not have my men do such things … you may as well ask me to change the colour of the sky.”

“You’ll do it, or our deal is over.” Bayek fetches his horse and mounts. He rides down the bluff and ties his horse to a post outside the village. He hopes no one has the audacity to steal it, for he can’t afford to have Senu to both look out for him tonight and act as a guard. Bayek shadows his face as best he can, hiding his hands beneath his cloak and his eyes trained on the floor. He sinks into a patch of tall grass at the foot of the fort’s stone walls, sending Senu high at the same time. She watches a guard completing his rounds near the fort’s gates, and as soon as he’s past, Bayek scales the wall. He hurries to the man and kills him, securing his body in a shadowed corner and retracing his path back towards the guardhouse over the gate. The door to the guardhouse is open enough that he can peer inside. There’re four guards sitting around a table, drinking and dicing. Bayek directs Senu to one of the open windows.

Senu lands on the sill and trills a couple of times. The guards look up, distracted, and Bayek takes the opportunity to widen the crack of the door and throw in a handful of smoke powder. It billows up, and Bayek runs in, killing all four guards in the space of a few heartbeats. One touch, two, three, four, each with his hidden blade to the heart. The guards are too air-starved coughing to shout anything as they die. Senu’s already gone to distract the final guard on rounds by the gate. It’s all too easy for Bayek to sneak up behind him and snap his neck as the soldier tries to keep Senu from cutting up his face any more.

With the guards disposed of, Bayek shimmies down the inside of the stone wall of the fort and towards the bolted gate. He eases the latches back just enough that it’s not immediately clear they’re undone, but still pulled back enough that all it’ll take to throw the gate open is the weight of a dozen men on the other side. Bayek retreats back to the guardhouse, on the way passing the stables which are full of more horses than he would have thought. The smoke is gone, and he closes the window and locks the door as Senu searches for Vindex. The fort is large. Over the past two days Bayek had counted an entire legion inside its walls, and now in the middle of the night, most of them sleep. Three dozen still patrol the walls and grounds, and Vindex was known amongst the troops to keep odd hours. Most of those hours were spent in his study, managing the finances of the region.

Through Senu, Bayek finds Vindex’s study, and plans a route around the patrols. Vindex’s study is at the back end of the fort, surrounded by high walls no normal man could climb or breach, with guards stationed on either side. Bayek doesn’t recognise the regalia they wear, and that gives him pause. He thinks of the horses in the stables, and realises with grim frustration that someone else must be here, some other high-ranking Roman officer. Hessaum would want to know, and perhaps even delay his assault. Bayek pokes his head out of the window and counts the horses, counts the men in formal garb. A small force, no more than a dozen, probably less. It spoke of something covert, and his curiosity spikes. He banishes the idea of changing plans, and forges ahead to the study. He skirts the patrols without harming a hair on any of the soldiers’ heads, until he arrives outside of Vindex’s study. He kills the two men standing guard with brutal proficiency, hiding their bodies away in the shadows. He can’t make out the muffled conversation from within the building, and he creeps closer, straying into the light of the torches that burn outside.

A man opens the door, and if he hadn’t been facing into the room he would have seen Bayek. Bayek dives aside.

“— orders are clear. They come from the lips of Marcus Aurelius himself.”

“The fact that you’ve come yourself to deliver them, Pompeianus, says enough.”

Pompeianus … Kassandra had mentioned the name the day they’d left Andros. Tiberius Claudius Pompeianus. One of Aurelius’ men, and a champion of the recent battles against the Marcomanni to the north-west, a long way from Dacia. Bayek presses himself closer to the ground. From where he is, in the shadow of the building’s wall, he can see the shape of a Roman officer in the doorway, a _legatus_ by his regalia and _phalerae_ on his chest. His short hair is curly, and Bayek can see the side of a neatly-trimmed beard. He must be around forty.

Pompeianus laughs. “Winning Aurelius’ confidence has been detrimental to the Order, I’ll be the first to say. This, my friend, is important. I’m saddened that it has to come to this, though.” Pompeianus frowns. “Catonius, your men have vanished.”

The second man inside, Catonius Vindex, swears. “Despicable. Dicing again, no doubt. The front’s been so quiet men have been shirking their duties.”

“Make sure news of this behaviour doesn’t get out. I’ve heard of rebel activity in the area.”

“Fools. Lombards and Ubii who haven’t accepted our terms. We’ll root them out soon, don’t worry your head on it.”

“The situation had better be reconciled, and quickly. To me, men.” Pompeianus turns away from the door, and six soldiers file out after him. Bayek’s teeth grind. The thought crosses his mind that he could have done something as soon as Pompeianus had mentioned the Order, but the rational part of him knows he needs to know more. He only has a confession to what he belongs to, but nothing else. He’d gained Marcus Aurelius’ confidence. He was planning something which wrestled with his conscious.

It leaves the question of Lucius Verus, the other emperor. Surely it would be in the Order’s interest to have the both of them. Bayek doesn’t know much of the happenings in Rome, but whilst he was there, both emperors had proved themselves to be fair, just, and good rulers, which had surprised Bayek due to their shared crown. For the first time in years the nomad Damos crosses Bayek’s mind, and the prediction that he had made that one of the emperors would be dead by the end of his first year. How wrong he has been. But Bayek knows enough of the two that Aurelius is the better of the two men, and that Verus, whilst by no means is a poor leader, spent most of his time attending games and drinking.

Bayek moves forward again to the door of Vindex’s study, and puts his eye to the keyhole. Vindex is alone, nursing a cup of wine in one hand, and scratching out words in a ledger with the other. He looks tired and haggard.

Bayek straightens up, and knocks. “ _Procurator._ ”

“Come in.” There’s malice in the man’s voice.

Bayek opens the door, and Vindex says without looking up from his work. “I should have you flogged, your rank stripped from you for deserting your post as you did.” Vindex turns around, and in doing so impales himself on Bayek’s hidden blade. Bayek pushes the blade deeper and grasps Vindex’s mind to take him to the Duat.

He finds Vindex in front of him, and has a heron’s feather in hand.

“You killed my men,” he says.

“That I did.”

Vindex sits back on his heels and tilts his face to the sky. “I was to be a Senator,” he says as Bayek prowls around him. “All my work, my sacrifice …”

“I’m not here to listen to you bawl like a child.”

“I know what you are. I’ve heard stories of the Hidden Ones, but I never thought you would leave the nest that is Rome. And I’ve heard more of _your_ certain kind, those that’ve been called Tainted Ones. So you’ve taken me to this place for my confession to crimes you accuse me of. A pity for you, for I have committed no crimes.”

“Your military exploits for the good of the Order say otherwise. Is the slaughter of innocents a necessary ‘sacrifice’ for you to make?”

“For the glory of Rome, for the greater good the Order embodies, yes. It’s why Verus has to die.” Bayek grabs him by the front of his breastplate, incentivised, but Vindex just laughs at him. “You don’t understand, do you? He’s already dead. Be assured that Marcus Aurelius truly weeps for his fate.”

“Why does Aurelius want Verus dead? They’re brothers.”

“Verus is a burden. As emperor he is incompetent.”

Bayek can’t fault that. Nevertheless, he slashes Vindex’s throat with the feather. He comes back to the world, and a Roman is standing in the doorway with his _gladius_ drawn. “ _Occidendum! Ipse suus dux occisus est!_ ”

Bayek sprints at the man, throwing blinding smoke powder down and keeling the solider over. Bayek feels the man’s head crack against the stone, but it’s not a killing blow. The fort is erupting into action, and Bayek tears for the nearest escape, spitting at himself for his carelessness. Senu dives past him, and Bayek throws himself into a roll to avoid a javelin. He keeps going, running to the stone ramparts with his _khopesh_ drawn. He hooks a solider that bursts out of a guard room, swinging him around with the blunt inside curve and into a wall face first. The man’s knocked unconscious, and Bayek sees two of his teeth fly from his mouth before he keeps going, grunting as an arrow catches him in the shoulder. He slashes at another soldier across the face, and the man screams as he falls. Bayek reaches the ramparts and throws himself into the open air, wheeling his arms for balance. The drop is further than he expects, and he cries out as his ankle collapses under him before he can roll properly. Bayek skids on his front in the dirt, face-down and huffing with the pain. He’s forced to keep moving as an arrow embeds itself in the earth barely a hairsbreadth from his nose. Senu covers his escape through the fort’s village, and Bayek grabs his horse from where he left it, kicking it too viciously in the sides.

“Hah! Go!”

Bells suddenly clang through the air, shattering whatever peace was left. Bayek hunkers close to the horse’s back, and he doesn’t relax until he meets the treeline. Hessaum and his hand axe are where Bayek left them.

Hessaum stands up, pocketing the whetstone he’d been using to hone the axe’s edge. “You set the fucking alarms off. They’ll know we’re coming.”

“The gate is still vulnerable, the deal is upheld.”

“And more of my men will die because they’re looking out for more attacks.”

“So come back in a week, come back in two,” Bayek says, “but the gates will be barred then, and even more of your men will die. There was a man that left when I arrived, one of Marcus Aurelius’ _legatus_.”

“By the gods. A _legatus_ here?”

“And concerned about your doings. Hold off your attack, and your chances to do something will dwindle. Tonight, Vindex is dead. With this snake’s head chopped off there is no better time to strike.”

Hessaum grits his teeth. “I hope that every one of my men that dies tonight weighs on your conscious, Egyptian. You’ll be cursed by the gods for this.”

“Burn the fort,” is all Bayek says.

Hessaum strides back through the trees, and his men call for arms. Bayek watches as they storm and breach the gates. In the morning, dead from both sides litter the fields, and the fort has been reduced to ash.

* * *

Tibiscum’s burning sends the Romans back to the other side of the Danube. It’s a victory for the rebels, but they face a new threat, one from their own people. Over the next few weeks there’s a flux of activity from both sides of the river. Raids are carried out, border skirmishes. Bayek walks on corpses. However Hessaum and his rebels seem to be holding out. It’s not long before news arrives about the death of Lucius Verus from the plague that’s been sweeping the empire. A few days later, Senu dives from the sky to Bayek as he walks through one of the region’s small villages, and she hops on his arm, trilling.

“Ey.” Bayek tucks her under the chin. “What’s gotten you so excited?” And then a figure emerges from the snowy winds, a Lakonian soldier in ancient armour, their face covered by a closed helm. Bayek exclaims, “Ka—”

“Shh!” She pulls him between two of the village’s houses and tilts her helm back off her face. She’s painted her cheeks with mud, and presses a finger to her lips. “Don’t call me that. Alexios — you understand?”

“It’s good to see you too.” She rolls her eyes, but Bayek doesn’t miss how she smiles. “You found what you wanted?” he asks.

“I suppose you _could_ say that.” Bayek raises an eyebrow, but Kassandra refuses to elaborate. “I’m here because of Lucius Verus.”

“He’s dead.”

“I know, and not by plague. I was there, and I couldn’t do anything. It was that arsehole Pompeianus. He’s got Marcus Aurelius by the balls,” she says, and mimes the action. “I don’t care about the emperors, but I do care about the influences behind them.”

“Aurelius has turned to the Order at the whims of Pompeianus.”

“ _Maláka_.” Kassandra drives her fist into the wall of one of the houses. “When?”

“Pompeainus gained his favour with the recent fighting in _Provincia Pannonia_. I would guess it to be then.”

“More dead emperors will not help. This has to be dealt with, _now_.” She pulls her helmet off, swipes her flyaways from her forehead, and sits on an upturned bucket, clasping her hands together. “Tell me everything.”

So Bayek does. He tells her of what he’d been doing in Rome for the past several years, hunting down members of the Order, and watching the Hidden Ones from afar as they investigated the Order on their own terms. He tells Kassandra of the young man amongst them who seems to be blessed as they are with their strange Vision, but not in the way that they know it, more as a sudden knowing of where the terrain lies, and the enemies within it. He trusted the Hidden Ones enough in Rome that upon the emperors’ leave of the city three years ago, he followed them, and then business and leads had taken him to Dacia.

“What of yourself?” he asks as Senu and Ikaros clean the others’ feathers on the thatch roof above them.

“I found the Vaults you spoke of; unfortunately, they didn’t speak to me. They said the message they carried wasn’t for me to hear. I thought it was a load of horseshit.” Bayek’s surprised. Then again, the Hyena’s frustration at the Vault under Khufu’s pyramid had spoken as much. Kassandra shakes her head. “After that, well, I made my way up through Achaea and Makedonia, and heard of _Procurator_ Vindex’s death. The description of the killer was enough to have me interested. You got caught; sloppy for someone who prides himself on being hidden.”

Bayek scoffs and pushes her off her bucket, and laughs at her as she falls in the frozen mud with an undignified curse. “I thought we were in a hurry?”

“And we are! We are.” She stands, picks up her helm, and says, “Aurelius is already back in Rome. Verus has been dead for weeks now. And I am not going to Rome.”

Bayek throws up his hands. “Then where do you suggest? Rome is the serpent’s nest!”

“And your Hidden Ones are keeping it tamed. Aurelius and therefore that dog Pompeianus won’t be away from their wars for long. We’ll go to the Marcomanni.”

“If you think it best.”

They buy supplies and plan to leave the village two days later, that is until news comes of Hessaum’s rebellion. Bayek turns around when he hears of a rebel slaughter in the foothills of the mountains a three day ride away, and dread settles in his gut. Kassandra agrees to follow him to the battle site. They arrive to find a massacre. Bayek moves amongst the dead, and every so often he’ll recognise a face. Behind him Kassandra pulls off her helm, stepping over the bodies and crouching down every so often to check for a pulse. “The Romans were thorough.”

“This isn’t the work of Romans,” Bayek says. “Look how the bodies lay. If this was done in an organised _legion_ , there would be decisive lines; here they’re scattered. And here, look at these weapons. None are of Roman make. No, this was done by their own tribesmen. The ones loyal to Rome.” He stops. He’s found what’s left of Hessaum. The man’s turned over on a shoulder, a spear driven through his neck. Bayek turns him onto his back with his foot and bows his head. The worms have already claimed some of his face, but the frost has preserved enough there’s no mistaking him. “ _Nek._ ”

“A friend?” Kassandra asks.

“No, but I knew him.” He grits his teeth. “Aurelius has returned to Rome, and Verus’ death has stirred the tribes to the north. It won’t be long before the emperor returns to the front lines, and Pompeianus will follow.”

Later in the year, Pompeianus marries Aurelius’ daughter Lucilla, and Kassandra glowers. News also comes that Pompeianus doesn’t spend long enjoying his marital nuptials and will soon ride again to Pannonia. Bayek and Kassandra arrive in the province in the midst of a glorious summer. They find abandoned villages scattered close to the Danube, and as they march on and find more villages with life, they start to try and find the bulk of the Roman and Marcomanni forces. Whenever they do this, Kassandra dons her armour and smears her face with dirt, and won’t answer to any other name than Alexios.

“Why?” Bayek asks her. “In Byzántion you were yourself.”

“I wasn’t looking for work in Byzántion. Now I want money, and no one will hire a mercenary with tits. So I bind them down and gruff my voice up to earn my pay.” She sighs deeply, watching as a child and her dog run by their horses’ feet. She’s lost in thought a moment, then shakes her head. “Come on. It’s not difficult to find an army. Two days west.”

The land within the armies’ paths has been destroyed. Green fields of lush grasses give way to mud, burnt and salted fields, mass graves, and scenes of unspeakable human atrocity. Stopped within a copse of trees, Kassandra crouches down in the mud of a recent skirmish and eyes the footprints there. Bayek waits with their horses as she works.

“Not a large fight,” she concludes, tossing her bow from one hand to the other as she comes back to him. “These men were _auxiliaries_ to the larger body of the Roman army, mounted. The Marcomanni ambushed them from the side of the road. The fight would have been over within minutes, and the _auxiliaries_ took heavy losses, the Marcomanni less so.” Bayek nods, taking the scene in. It’s a fair read of the field. “And,” Kassandra continues, “the Marcomanni retreated over the hill there.” She points through the trees and up a hill. “Footprints. They looted the bodies and fled, maybe afraid of a Roman patrol following close behind. I say we go and greet them.”

“Are you mad?” Bayek asks.

“If you don’t move now I’ll leave you standing there to greet the troops they were so afraid of.”

Bayek simmers, but follows Kassandra when she starts off into the trees. Dragging the horses up the incline is no easy task, and he glares at Kassandra waiting at the top of the rise, leaning on a boulder. Her eye is on a camp hugging the side of the hill. She looks around when Bayek reaches her, puffing for breath. “Two hundred, three hundred at most. A warband.”

“This is your plan how?”

“We greet them, and then we offer our services. If we win their favour their force will take us to the main one, and that is where we will find Pompeianus. We’ll have our backs covered.”

They go down to the camp. It smells hideously, and the noise of the men, their livestock, and the general clamour of living makes Bayek’s temple throb. At the entrance to the camp is a severed head mounted on a spear. A _galea_ is balanced precariously on top, and from the blood running down the spear’s shaft and the general freshness of the head, it must belong to one of the dead _auxiliaries_. Bayek doesn’t get long to look at it. Six men rush him and Kassandra, forcing them to their knees with their spears. Two grab the horses.

One of the men shouts at them in German; neither Bayek or Kassandra speak it.

“Koine?” Kassandra says over the man. “Anyone?”

Bayek speaks three languages to some capacity — his native Coptic, fluent Koine, and passable Latin. It takes some time before they can find someone who speaks Koine. His name is Jutaben, a man in his thirties. The warriors poke Bayek and Kassandra through the camp towards him. Jutaben’s tent is far finer than the others, and Bayek spots on a table inside a number of rolls of parchment. An educated man, then, and most likely the band’s leader. Jutaben looks them up and down, twisting a finger in his beard as he inspects them. His eyes linger over Kassandra. Bayek thinks he’s seen through her disguise, but no comment’s made. The armour hides Kassandra’s curves, and the helm covers so much of her face it’s difficult to see beneath, the dirt smeared on her cheeks making it even more so.

Jutaben’s accent is thick. “If you’re not a slave or a merchant, then what is an Egyptian doing so far from home?”

“We’ve come to fight,” Kassandra says.

The barbarian laughs. “You’re still green behind the ears, boy.”

“I’m no boy. I’m Spartan. I’ve killed twice as many men as you.”

“Your armour is ancient, you’re slight, and your voice is hardly broken. Go home, _boy_.”

“He is a fine warrior,” Bayek cuts over them both.

“If that’s so, then show us what you can do.” Jutaben points them away. “Go on — fight.”

Bayek asks for a straight sword, and Kassandra matches his choice, leaving the Spear in its harness. The two square off, Jutaben and several of his men watching. Bayek whirls the sword in a circle, testing the weight and balance. It’s by no means something he would have taken into battle, but it’s fine enough for a spar. He raises an eyebrow at Kassandra. She leaps for him, and Bayek batters her sword aside easily. The last time they crossed blades was on Andros eight years previously. Bayek retaliates with a testing blow of his own, and Kassandra knocks it aside as easily as he had hers. They circle each other, probing at the other’s defence, before Bayek engages properly. Kassandra dances around his blade, feinting left, then right, then lunging forward. Bayek, expecting the strike, steps to the side and aims the flat of his sword for Kassandra’s head. Her vambrace meets the sword, and she uses the opening to jab at him again. Bayek slides his sword along the bottom of Kassandra’s vambrace towards her cheek, and it forces her away. Beneath her helmet, he can see her wild grin.

They fight for several minutes, careful not to land any wounding blows on skin. Despite that, Bayek obtains a nasty bruise on his side, and Kassandra one on her shoulder. They’re not trying to hurt the other, just to impress Jutaben. Just as Bayek’s growing tired, Jutaben calls for a halt.

He clicks his fingers at Bayek. “You. Fight my man. The first to touch the other wins the round.” Then he points at Kassandra. “You after.”

The man who lumbers forward is huge, taller than Bayek by a good head and a half, and Bayek himself is no small man. The man glares at Bayek, and Bayek huffs, handing the sword back to the man he borrowed it from and drawing the _khopesh_ from his horse’s saddlebags. There are sounds of surprise and curiosity from the watchers, but no comment’s made. Bayek catches a few sniggers even, and a whisper about how he’ll be lucky to win with a bent weapon made by an idiot blacksmith. The _khopesh_ isn’t made just for cutting, however. Blunt force is another of its uses, as well as hooking the opponent. Bayek props it on his shoulder and beckons for Jutaben’s man to come for him.

Half a minute later, Bayek stands victorious. The man was agile for his size, good enough at fighting, but Bayek has far better technique. Kassandra’s smile hasn’t dulled, and Jutaben’s temper is noticeably shorter when he calls another man forth to fight her. She manages to beat her opponent even quicker than Bayek had done, using the Spear’s strange powers to duck under a pointed blow and deliver a devastating kick to the man’s lower back. She hadn’t even drawn a weapon.

They stand before Jutaben, waiting for his decision.

Jutaben’s jaw clicks. “So what do you want?” he asks irritably. “If you’re after coin then you’d be standing before Rome.”

“Roman coin, no. But Roman heads? That perks our interests,” Kassandra says. “Specifically Pompeianus’.”

“Ha. What man here doesn’t want to behead the dog or his emperor?” He waves at the spiked head. “I don’t trust either of you as far as I can throw. If you fight for us, then you’re under our eyes even in your sleep. You won’t pick your noses without me knowing about it. But your skill is great, and we need that. I hope you brought your own shelter.”

And so Bayek and Kassandra join the Marcomanni. Most of the time they sit around doing little of interest. Kassandra spends most of the time sleeping for nothing else to do, whereas Bayek can’t. He’s spent so long by himself and staying within the shadows sitting now in the open grates against his nerves. He could vanish if he wants to, and sometimes he thinks about doing it because both he and Kassandra know they don’t need the Marcomanni. What Kassandra said stays with him. Vindex had been different; although he had held power within the army and within Rome to an extent, it was nothing compared to Pompeinaus. A similar situation had come to Bayek and Aya when they had gone after the Jackal Septimius and the Scorpion Pothinus. Pompeianus would be too well guarded for them to get to unseen. The only way to draw him out was with a fight, and with the Marcomanni on their side, they would have allies to fall back to. As much as they could be considered. Bayek has no illusions that the Marcomanni would abandon them as soon as they were no longer convenient.

The warband marches north. Their destination is Carnuntum, a Roman fort situated on the Danube, and it’s where Bayek learns the Marcomannic king Ballomar waits. His and Kassandra’s first chance to prove themselves to Jutaben in battle comes a week into their march north from another group of Rome’s _auxilia_. Senu spots them first, and Bayek calls to Jutaben with the knowledge. Jutaben sends two boys to scout back, and they confirm Bayek’s words. He and Kassandra are the first to greet the riders. They stand on a ridge above the road, each with thirty arrows stuck by their feet. Bayek nocks the first on his bowstring, and imagines that the wood sings as he draws. Next to him, the tip of Kassandra’s arrow glows as if it’s been heated in the heart of a forge. Bayek’s arrow finds its mark in the neck of the first _auxiliary_ to come through the cover of the trees, and a moment later Kassandra’s arrow hits the man behind. It explodes like a firebomb, and Bayek hears several of Jutaben’s men yell in alarm. Kassandra ignores them and draws a second arrow.

Their arrows keep finding their marks, punching through whatever shields the _auxiliaries_ wield. By the time the main force rushes the _auxiliaries_ , there are barely fifteen men left to fight. Kassandra wobbles where she stands, and Bayek glares hatefully at the Spear on her back. “You have to get rid of it,” he hisses in her ear.

Kassandra shoots him a look.

The men are convinced she wields magic. Some of them are disgusted by it, but others are enthralled. “You’re favoured by Wodanaz.”

Behind her, one of the men spits. “He’s cursed is what,” he mutters. “Why would the gods favour a Spartan pup over one of our own?”

After that Jutaben cannot dismiss them. The men would riot if the Spartan mercenary Alexios and his Egyptian warrior left them. The next time they fight some of the warriors come to Kassandra before and ask her for favour with the gods, or to bless their weapons. Others beg her to show them her face, but Kassandra refuses. If she does, then the ruse would be up, and no matter the strengths she brings in battle, she would be banished at least, and killed at worst. For her though, it means she and Bayek will miss their best opportunity at Pompeianus.

The warband arrives outside of Carnuntum just before the winter sets in. The fort is on the river, and undermanned. Soon the Danube freezes over, leaving the Romans stranded. King Ballomar decides to wait them out in siege, and to occupy his men sends them raiding. Bayek and Kassandra use the stillness to leave the camp for a while. Kassandra’s happy to not have to hide anymore. She lets her hair out and swims naked in the frozen water, beckoning Bayek to come in. Bayek’s too busy trying not to freeze himself.

During the winter, life returns somewhat to normal. Bayek and Kassandra hunt, spar, and do as they wish. They spend as much time as they can away from the camp, making sure it’s not long enough for them to be missed or their loyalties doubted. Word of Kassandra’s exploits travel too, and soon she becomes the subject of admiration. None of the warriors know either that she is a woman, and there are days Bayek can see how much she longs to throw her helm down and declare what she is to the men, but she can’t, for both of them.

Bayek is regarded as a curiosity. Many of the Marcomanni have never seen a man as dark as him, and he receives questions he finds ranging from odd to offensive. If his skin was burnt, was it paint, why does he wear a woman’s _kohl_ around his eyes — the last is from feeling incomplete without it. Otherwise Bayek spars with some of the men, quickly establishing himself as one of the best warriors in the rapidly growing hoard. By the time the snows start to melt, the Marcomanni and their allied tribes, the Quadi being their largest force, have swelled to a host of fifty thousand. Reinforcements arrive from Rome, and their total troops when spring comes in full number forty thousand.

Kassandra worries. “I remember when Rome crushed Queen Boudicca when they were outnumbered twenty to one. I’ll only rest when victory is achieved.”

“We’re here for Pompeianus,” Bayek says firmly. “If the Marcomanni win, then I will be happy. If they lose and Pompeianus still dies, then I will still celebrate.”

Three weeks go by. One day, Kassandra rouses him from sleep. “It’s time,” she says. “The lines are forming up.”

Bayek takes up his weapons and follows her into the bright dawn.

* * *

King Ballomar rides before his men, screaming at the Roman lines. Bayek’s seen him around the camp, and he’s a well composed individual, regal and well spoken and groomed. Today that man is gone, and in his place is a wild man. His face is painted with swirling patterns of woad, as is his black charger. His long black hair, streaked with grey, flies around his face. His skin glistens with oil in the weak sunlight, the furs of his cloak matted and filthy. His warriors echo his war cries, and atop Ballomar’s spear is the head of a messenger Rome had sent demanding their surrender. Bayek looks at it with distaste, and shifts his weight. He wears chainmail atop his leathers and winter furs, his head unprotected except for his hood. His bow is slung across his back, his quiver full of arrows, and the _khopesh_ thirsting for blood in his hand. Kassandra stands next to him, likewise armed, her Corinthian helm still covering her face.

“Will you die?” Ballomar screams at the Romans.

The Marcomanni hit their weapons together in a clash of steel and thunder. “They will die!”

“Will you sow the crops with your blood, Romans?”

“ _HA!_ They will!”

“Will you please our slaughter?”

The Marcomanni roar, shaking their spears. The Romans troops are silent, and Bayek watches the lines through Senu’s eyes. The centurions direct their men into strict formation, quite opposite to the simple seething mass of the Marcomanni and their allies.

Ballomar bellows a war cry again, then signals the charge. War horns blare, and the Marcomanni sprint forward, Bayek and Kassandra amongst them. Kassandra streaks ahead of even Ballomar’s charger, and she rams herself into the first of the Roman legions. Their shields buckle beneath her weight, and she makes quick, brutal work of them. Bayek and the other Marcomanni have bridged the gap by then, and the armies clash. The first to engage them are the _Auxilia_ , with the ranks of Rome’s forces waiting behind them for the signal to engage. Bayek hears the _whump_ of Roman catapults hurling stones into the Marcomanni, and he shoves the _khopesh_ into the shoulder of an _auxiliary_. Once he buckles under Bayek’s greater strength, he yanks the _khopesh_ out of his flesh and takes the head of a second man with a clean blow. He uses his shield to push further into the _Auxilia_ ranks. He has Marcomanni fighting on every side, and is almost sent to a knee when something slaps into his back. He doesn’t have the time to look for what it was.

Bayek Senses a spear coming for him, and batters it aside with his shield, grabbing the displaced shaft and delivering the man holding it a vicious headbutt. The man lets go, and Bayek sweeps the spear around, clearing a section of space for himself. He thrusts the spear into the throat of one man, slices another deep across the chest, and then hurls the spear at another man blocking his path. The spear runs him through, and Bayek sees more space behind. He leaps through, Senu swooping overhead.

The more Bayek fights, the more frustrated he is at the waste of time this is. He and Kassandra should be aiming for Pompeianus. Cutting down troops would do nothing. _Where is she?_

Just as Bayek thinks it he sees a blinding flash. He cuts his way through the heaving mass and finds another section of Ballomar’s force engaged with Roman legionnaires. He spots the crest of Kassandra’s helm at once. She wrestles with a centurion, stabbing him in the chest with first her _kopis_ and then the Spear, ripping them free with a spray of blood. “Push!”

The Marcomanni roar and shove themselves forward. Bayek kills and kills. He kills until he stands back to back with Kassandra, and together the two of them carve a place of death. Where they fight none may cross and live. The bodies pile around their feet, and the Marcomanni gain ground, using Bayek and Kassandra’s progress to wedge themselves into the Roman force. Bayek can’t feel where he’s been hit, and it doesn’t matter anyway. He parries a spear, dodges around a javelin, hooks a man with the _khopesh_ and throws him to the howling Marcomanni. Beside him Kassandra crackles with power. The Spear sings here, and it is then Bayek truly understands why Kassandra can’t let it go.

The Orb is a thing of illusions, the Shroud one of healing. The Spear is a true instrument of war, and makes it a thing of beauty. Everything it does is with the purpose of killing. Kassandra’s arms are cut open, in some places to the bone, but like him she doesn’t seem to notice. Her wounds glow with golden light, and every so often she will disappear in a shift of movement and the next be pulling her Spear through the head of a Roman soldier. She herself has killed at least two whole cohorts.

“Alexios!” the Marcomanni scream. “For Wodanaz! For Tiwaz!”

The battles rages for hours. Men swap from the front of the lines to the back, and on the battle’s edges the mounted warriors clash with Romans to avoid them being surrounded. There comes an order from deep within the Marcomanni to drive the Romans back towards the river and crush them there, killing as they go. Bayek is tireless, as is Kassandra. They never rotate out, and they never find the need to. The Romans buckle heavily at the front of their combined assault. Roman horns blare, desperately trying to relay orders, but Bayek knows the day is won for the Marcomanni. He, however, still searches for Pompeianus. Senu shrieks in the skies above, but she hasn’t seen him either. What if he’s retreated?

Next to him Kassandra yells. It’s not made in the heat of battle, but in alarm. Bayek turns to see a Roman gripping the crest of her helm. The helmet is ripped off, and she whirls around, snarling, and punches the Roman in the face. The man falls back dead. Next to them, the Marcomanni warrior in line gapes at Kassandra, and she leers. “Fight!” she screams. “Or do you want to die, huh?” As she says it, another Roman solider fills the gap of the dead one, and Kassandra bullies herself between the shields, killing as she goes. Bayek goes after her, shielding his eyes a blinding flash of gold light erupts from further within the tangle of bodies and steel. Kassandra storms out, and she finds the same warrior again, pointing her Spear at him. “Fight, I said.”

“You’re a woman.” He sounds scandalised, furious.

Kassandra sneers. “And _I_ am winning this battle for your people whilst you stand there as useless and unwanted as a fucking fly at a fish market.” She hurls the Spear through the battle, vanishing a moment later.

Bayek doesn’t see her again. He cuts his way through the Romans, ignoring the wounds he receives and dealing ten times as many. Above him Senu cries for his attention, and then Bayek finally sees Pompeianus. He surges for the Roman at once. Pompeianus sits astride a chestnut warhorse, arguing with several officers behind the lines. He wears armour polished so the sun reflects from it like a mirror, and a wolf’s fur around his shoulders. A blood-red cloak spills down his back.

Bayek is halted by a spearhead in his shoulder, but carries on, determined. Pompeianus is the only thing he can think of. He runs, and one of the men yells in alarm. Attention is turned to Bayek as he yanks a knife from his belt, the hidden blade forgotten. Pompeianus turns his attention towards the field, and he spots Bayek coming for him. He gathers his horse’s reins.

Bayek, desperate, narrows his gaze on a single legionnaire. He sprints towards the man and jumps for his shield. He pushes up, using it as a springboard to leap high above the heads of the army, and at the height of the arc he throws the knife. It whistles through the air before finding its mark between the chinks of Pompeianus’ armour. Bayek fancies he hears the man scream over the other warriors and clash of weapons, but is struck down half a second later by an arrow through his ribs.

The next thing he knows Kassandra’s spitting in a fury above him, “What in _Hades_ were you thinking?”

“Is he dead?” Bayek grits out through his teeth, doing his best to ignore the stabbing pain of the arrow wound.

“No. Wounded, but very much alive, and very much aware of us now.” She is red from head to toe, every finger of her skin soaked in blood. She shakes her head. “We have to leave. Rome’s suffered a terrible defeat today, and I’m satisfied with that.” She offers him a hand up, and Bayek grasps it.

The Marcomanni and their allies sack the countryside and surrounding cities over the next few days. Of Pompeianus there is no news. He’s gone.

“I’m returning to Rome for his head,” Bayek growls. The Marcomanni gave his horse back long ago, but he’s had no reason to ride the mare other than exercise. He tightens the girth of her saddle, hoisting himself up. He turns to look at Kassandra and jerks his head towards the road. “Coming?”

Kassandra says, “You’re a fool to think I wouldn’t be,” and grins.

 

**_[ACQUIRED_CONTEXT_02]_ **

“Hail, Tiberius Claudius Pompeianus.”

“Hail.”

“We understand that you bring news of the battle that took place at Carnuntum.”

“That I do. Rome suffers defeat. I accept full responsibility for this.”

“And so you shall. What happened?”

“Our Order knows of strange objects of power. The Peloponnesian War, Alexander, Qin, and in Cleopatra’s Egypt. One of our own, the Jackal Lucius Septimius, is said to have fought with weapons like these on the day he was murdered, but, unfortunately, there’s no hard evidence. The Lion Flavius Metellus held a strange Orb, the Hyena Khaliset communed with places of power, the Huntsman Pactyas slaughtered those with connection to the objects. Another has emerged in our time. It was wielded in the hand of a woman, and if not for it we would have triumphed at Carnuntum.”

“You mean without it you would not have been injured as you were.”

“I come to warn you, my brothers, that these objects are forces of devastation.”

“Then you waste your breath. We hold in our archives the records of the extinct Cult of Kosmos, a branch much like our own that fell into ruin for their fascination with these objects and the people spawned by their existence. From them we have learnt the lessons of how important it is we control these pieces. Instead of bending their use for chaos and disorder, how much we must use them for order. The power they will give us to make our goal easier to reach. What happened to the woman with the Spear?”

“I do not know, brothers. I have spies looking for her. I suspect that she has a companion, a Mauri or Egyptian of some kind. What his part is I don’t know, but I suspect he belongs to the shadows that are intent on stopping our great progress.”

“The Hidden Ones? Bah! Not so hidden that we do not know of them. Your role is not to worry about the pests. We thank you for your report on the sighting of another weapon, and if what you say is true to the extent you tell, then it is vital that we hunt it down and gain it for ourselves, as well as these other objects. You mention the Lion Flavius and the piece he held. His mistake was holding it for himself, and we must not do so. No longer … Our ancient Order must become something smarter, greater. Our lives are dedicated to this greatness, so we must rise to the occasion. Having the ear of the world’s emperor isn’t enough. Go and rest, Claudius. We’ll discuss our next steps.”

“I understand.”

 

**_[BAYEK]_ **

Pompeianus reemerges in Rome, and from the way Bayek hears it, he never spends another moment of his life feeling safe. It’s not he or Kassandra who kills him twenty-three years after the Battle of Carnuntum, but the Roman Hidden One who, like Bayek and Kassandra, carries the Tainted blood of Those Who Came Before. Age had claimed Marcus Aurelius, not poison or plague, or the blade of a Hidden One, at the age of fifty-eight. His rule is succeeded by his sole surviving son, Commodus. The people, used to Aurelius’ guiding rule — and Bayek’s not so stupid as to ignore that despite Aurelius’ place in the Order of the Ancients, he had been a good emperor — revile Commodus. Twelve years after his ascension he’s killed by his own _cohortes praetorianae_ in his bathtub. Commodus’ rule may have been ineffective, but his own successors prove to be nothing but disasters. It is the year after this Pompeianus breathes his last.

Thirty-five years after Pompeianus’ death, Kassandra changes. It was an insect bite, nothing at first. It had bit her high on her arm, and although she had squashed the bug, the bite doesn’t heal as fast as expected. At first Bayek says nothing. Then he notices other little things. Kassandra _harumph_ s as her joints pop climbing up a steep path; she hisses as she flexes her arm a little too fast. A few days after the insect bite, he puts his efforts into scrubbing at his sweat-stained clothes in a stream as Kassandra sits on a flat rock near to their camp, trying to hide her winces as she moves. Her fingers run down Ikaros’ feathers; the bird turns his head away from her touch. They’re in the Alps, hiding from the Order’s hunters who hound them for the Spear. Every one of them has paid for it with their lives, but they’re both sick of killing.

Kassandra slides from the rock and taps Bayek on the shoulder. “Spar with me?”

Bayek stands, shrugging. There’s a meadow not far from their camp, and they go at it with their swords. A couple of minutes in, Bayek scores an accidental hit on Kassandra’s hand. Blood drips down her fingers, and she wraps her hand in a cloth. “I’ll be fine,” she assures him. By nightfall, the cut has hardly healed. Bayek again says nothing, turning one of their hares on the spit over the fire. They don’t talk during the meal, an oddity for them.

“I’m going to die soon,” Kassandra tells him.

Bayek snorts before he can stop himself. “We can’t die.”

“Maybe we can,” she laughs bitterly, “but we never knew about it.” She looks at the stars and says, “I know you’ve noticed.”

Worry begins to trickle into Bayek’s mind, and then thinks, maybe, that the cut on her hand isn’t as accidental as he had thought. He becomes much more sombre as he says, “How are you so certain?”

“I just know in the same way you do before it rains,” she tells him. “I can feel it in my bones.”

Two weeks after the conversation Kassandra’s hair is streaked with grey. Their progress through the mountains had slowed to a snail’s crawl, and they spend most of their days sitting. Kassandra’s breath runs short.

“ ‘Death may be the greatest of human blessings after all’. A friend once told me that.” Kassandra shivers despite the warmth of the day. Bayek stacks more wood on the fire, tightening the blankets around her too. They’re camped by a standing rock a couple of hundred paces away from a great cliff, the bottom of which is twice as far below. Clouds billow across the sky, a gorgeous autumn day. “Bayek,” Kassandra says, “here. Let’s stop for a few days.”

“Don’t say that,” Bayek snarls, because he knows what she’s implying.

“Please, my friend.”

Bayek feels helpless, furious, and grief-stricken. He wordlessly starts to set up camp. A month goes by. Another month. Kassandra keeps losing strength, and Ikaros stays close by her. At first he circled the skies above her, but now most of his time is spent nesting on the ground. Senu’s concern is palpable, but she’s as lost as Bayek is. One day he vanishes, and Bayek thinks nothing of it. That is, until Kassandra lets out a high keen from where she sits by the fire, swamped in blankets. She shakes the blankets off, hissing through her teeth the frustration with her own body; Bayek hears her bones creak like an old woman’s.

“Ikaros? _Ikaros!_ ”

“Kassandra! What’s wr—?”

“I have to find him.”

“Senu and I can —”

“Don’t. Get in my _fucking_ way, Bayek,” she bites, and levels the Spear at him. Bayek stays very still, and he doesn’t offer another word of protest as Kassandra hobbles off. Senu flies up high enough she won’t easily be spotted. Bayek starts cooking something to prepare for Kassandra’s return. The broth he’s made is cold by the time she comes back, and Bayek’s heart sinks when he sees the bundle in her arms. Her face is wet with tears, and when she sees the fire and Bayek waiting for her, her lip trembles. She falls to her knees, sobbing her heart out.

Bayek holds her, rocking in an effort to comfort. Kassandra can’t stop crying. He can’t imagine what losing Senu would be like after all these years. She was the only anchor he had most days.

It’s a long while before she can release Ikaros’ body, and she alone digs a grave for him on the cliff’s edge. She refuses to let Bayek help. The sun hangs blood red in the sky when the last of the dirt is laid, and Kassandra trudges back. She stands before the campfire, hunched over. Bayek shifts his position, inviting her to sit. She sinks next to him, huddling against his shoulder and staring into the flames.

“I’m sorry I threatened you,” she says.

“I know.”

“I can’t do it anymore. You and Senu are the only people I have left, and I barely know you.”

“We’ll stay with you,” Bayek tells her. “Until it’s done.”

Three days pass. Bayek leaves the camp only for food Senu has scouted out, and returns as quickly as he can. After one of these excursions he comes back to Kassandra sitting up against the standing rock, dressed as if she’s prepared to go to war. Her _kopis_ and Spear lay across her legs, her helmet by her side, and a bag by her other. Her eyes are bright, her expression determined, and Bayek knows it’s time. He shrugs the goat carcass off his shoulders and walks to Kassandra, sitting cross-legged next to her. It’s only now when he’s closer does he notice how her breath rattles in her throat, and how her skin has an unhealthy pallor to it. Her hand when it reaches for his shakes. Bayek grasps her fingers, and the two of them look out across the mountains, drinking it in.

“I’ve never been afraid of death,” Kassandra says. “But I never wanted a slow one. I always wanted the candle of my life to be snuffed out at once, and not for the wick to wither into nothingness.”

Bayek understands that sentiment. He’s died quickly many times before, and the blessing of it is that it’s over and done with. Only once has he suffered a drawn out death, and that was his crucifixion above Fort Clostra so many decades ago. Centuries ago.

Kassandra leans her head back against the rock and closes her eyes, her chest rising and falling slowly. “I have something for you, and please, do not think badly of me for it.” She reaches into her bag, and Bayek sucks in a breath when she holds out the Aten that he had begged for the boy Sutekh to hide. First he is astonished as to how she had gotten her hands on it, but then the pieces click into place.

“He was a child,” Bayek whispers, horror-struck.

“A stupid child,” Kassandra says. “I took it from him when he would not give it to me.”

“You _killed him_.”

There’s no regret in Kassandra’s eyes. “He would not have kept it safe, so I return it to you, Bayek of Siwa. Do better this time.”

“You were in Thebes? I was there, and I —”

“I didn’t know you were there until I saw you again in Byzántion. Your face was familiar, but I only remembered why when you opened the Forge.”

The Aten is a hefty weight in Bayek’s hand, and he grips it, breathing heavily through his nose. “I won’t let us part like this.” He puts the Aten between them, out of sight, but not out of mind. He’s wounded that she hid this from him, and although it’s important, there are more pressing things.

The corner of Kassandra’s mouth twitches, and the tension in her shoulders eases. “I’m glad I found you, and that we met,” she says weakly. “I … I believe that if I’m not the only one, then you’re not, either. That there are or will be others like us. Long ago I had a vision. I saw such things as you can’t imagine. I saw ships that would rip through a _trireme_ with weapons speaking with voices of thunder. I saw lands filled with fir trees alight like torches and flags of stars soaked in the blood of a dream. I saw cities of smoke and light powered by gas with populations that dwarfed Rome. I saw continents filled with towers made of glass that touched the sky. I saw your Hidden Ones, Bayek, scattered throughout these places. They called themselves Assassins.” She coughs, and Bayek holds her as her whole body shakes. It’s a long while before she’s done. She moves herself to the lush grass, holding the blades between her fingers. She looks at the birds and the sky, at the clouds she and Bayek had once spent a day picking shapes out of.

“You can’t run from what you are, Bayek,” she says. “I see you struggling with this life, and it’s not going away like it is for me.” She touches his hidden blade. “I first saw this on Darius’ wrist, and I thought it was a stupid thing. The way you wield it has made it into a more effective weapon. Death comes at your touch. Use your life, and weaponise it better than I have. You _have_ to.”

“Kassandra you’re frightening me. What have you dreamt?”

She doesn’t seem to hear him. “I wish … I wish I had found you sooner, but you hide yourself well, Amun. The Great Nameless, Ageless One.” She grips his hand, and she leans to him. “No one must find out about your long life. _No one._ ”

“What do you mean? Kassandra?”

She slumps back, and her eyelids flutter. “Maybe They put it there; I just know it like I know my name. Don’t ask me how. If people know we will lose our advantage. _She_ …”

“ ‘She’?” he asks, desperate. “Who is ‘ _she_ ’? Kassandra!”

Kassandra is slipping away, and Bayek’s not ready. “Bayek,” she says. “The Piece of Eden, my Spear. Bury them deep. No one may have them. And make that bitch bleed for me.” Her fingers slacken, and once again, Bayek is alone.

* * *

_Here do you lie beneath the endless stars,_

_Wind within your chest but breathless,_

_Shrouded in the warmth of night, you live because I remember._

_I carved your name in my heart,_

_I cried ‘til my throat was hoarse._

_You, my loved one, my lost one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to quickly note as well I've taken some liberties with historical dates, such as Vindex's death. The longer version of the poem at the end is found at the Shrine of Amun in _The Curse of the Pharaohs_ DLC.


	3. the eagle of masyaf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said that I would also have Ezio in this chapter, but when I was getting to the 30k word mark without an end in sight, I had to do some re-evaluating. The good news is that a massive chunk of the next chapter is therefore done. This chapter leans a _lot_ into game meta as well, which was super fun to integrate into the prose. Also it does dictate Altair's character (specifically the "sync bar mechanics means Altair was never hit" train of logic) so yeah *finger guns*

**_[ALTAÏR]_ **

Altaïr shakes, sweat-soaked and panting. He alone stands amongst half a dozen recruits writhing on the training ring’s floor — Fayyaad, Abbas, Ihsan, Hakin, Malik, and Jinan. His knuckles are covered in blood and none of it his own. His heart pounds in his ears, and feels every pulse of blood in his fingers and toes. He is barely fourteen years old. Men gather around the ring to watch his blossoming talent, and for the whispers they’ve heard of what he can do. Labib has told as many who will listen about his best student, and there are just as many who don’t believe him as there are those who want to see for themselves the child that can beat the Brotherhood’s best men into the ground without so much as a bruise to show for it.

The ring sits in the middle of the keep’s courtyard, in full view of any who walk the battlements, and mostly importantly, in view of the Master’s study.

“It’s written in our oldest records of this Eagle Vision,” Labib says to the Master. They stand on the rostrum above the ring, observing the hopefuls of this year’s crop. “Greece, Egypt, Rome, and in Svealand of all places! The Odin-sight they call it, after one of their gods of war.”

“And of wisdom, do not forget,” the Master says. He gestures to the ring. “Show me.”

Labib nods, and turns his attention to his students. “Up!” he barks. The novices groan and stagger to their feet, hobbling to the edge of the ring to catch their breath. “Altaïr, stay where you are. The rest of you leave.”

Abbas with his bloodied nose shoots a glare at Altaïr, and Altaïr curls his lip in a subtle sneer. Once the others have stepped outside the ring, Labib tosses Altaïr a wooden practice sword which he catches by the handle without looking. “Ibrahim! Zaid!” Labib calls, and two men standing on the edge of the courtyard come forward. Altaïr looks at them through hooded eyes. He knows the men, they’re some of Masyaf’s best swordsmen. As they gather practice swords, Labib says, “You’re to engage at the same time. Offer him no ground.”

“We’ll show the novices how it’s done,” Zaid laughs, swinging the sword a few times before him. Altaïr doesn’t move. The two of them square up to Altaïr, and Labib commands them to start.

Altaïr blocks Ibrahim’s first jab. It’s a testing one, and he does the same to Zaid, all the while backing up to the ring’s edge. The men advance, and after a few more pokes, begin in earnest. Altaïr comes alive. He ducks beneath Ibrahim’s sword and raises his vambrace to block Zaid’s follow up, jabbing the man in the stomach with the pommel of his own sword. He slips between them as they recover. Altaïr parries the next blow without thinking, does it again, and then darts forward a snake-quick attack of his own. He frowns when Ibrahim blocks it; he’d been certain to get a touch. Altaïr skips backwards to recreate distance. Zaid smiles, evidently thinking that perhaps Altaïr, although good, isn’t as good as they’ve been told. Altaïr holds his sword before him, his gaze flicking between Ibrahim and Zaid. He can’t hear the chatter of the audience; his entire world is within the ring.

He takes another step back as Zaid tests his guard again, cautiously. Altaïr moves the blade aside. He walks backwards still, and then his calf bumps into the ring’s edge once more. Abbas stands within touching distance; Altaïr grinds his jaw. He can feel Abbas’ eyes piercing the back of his head like awls, and almost misses his next block. After that his concentration is taken as Ibrahim and Zaid unleash a flurry of blows upon him. Altaïr can barely get breathing room, but every strike is caught by his sword or vambrace. He’s already sore from his previous bouts; his shoulders ache, and his sand-dry throat burns.

Ibrahim and Zaid fan out to either side of him, Zaid to flank him as Ibrahim diverts Altaïr’s attention. Any lesser swordsman would be quickly overwhelmed, but Altaïr isn’t like other swordsmen. Just as Zaid vanishes from his periphery vision, Altaïr Senses what is to happen. He’s moving before either man can understand. He batters Zaid’s sword aside, catches Ibrahim’s swordhand and throws him around and into Zaid. The men tumble, and Altaïr strikes forward, twisting, jabbing, cutting, suddenly on the offensive and pressing them hard. To win, Altaïr must overwhelm them, and soon they begin to make mistakes. After that it’s all over within seconds. Altaïr Senses every movement to be, flying beneath the whirling practice blades and waiting for the openings he knows are coming before his opponents do. He disarms Ibrahim with a single move, throwing him to the ground and taking his sword up with his own. He ducks within Zaid’s guard and brings the points of both swords under his chin; if they were real, Altaïr could kill him in the blink of an eye. No one moves. Altaïr is breathing heavily, but otherwise none the worse for wear.

Labib’s clapping echoes around the courtyard. “Wonderful! Wonderful.”

Altaïr sniffs and finds Abbas once more in the now swollen crowd. He has been told his eyes, yellow as they are, are nothing more than frightening when levelled at another in anger, and Altaïr stares at Abbas with every sliver of satisfaction he can muster. Abbas glowers back. He had been the last person to hit Altaïr two years previously, and the exchange is writ as a pearl-white scar on Altaïr’s lip.

“Well fought,” Zaid pants behind Altaïr, and claps him on the shoulder in congratulations.

Altaïr has had to learn when to allow touches. He turns to Zaid and Ibrahim, nodding. “Well fought.”

He is parched with thirst; nothing is more appealing than the water barrel sitting at the ring’s edge. Altaïr trudges towards it, and suddenly whips around and snatches at the air; he hides his wince as something small and hard slaps into his hand. There is stunned silence in the courtyard, many not realising something had happened except that Altaïr had reacted to something. Altaïr shivers. He unclenches his fist and finds within it a pebble no bigger than his smallest nail. If he had missed it, it would have hit him in the back of the head. He traces the trajectory, and his eyes settle on the Master. The Master’s face is as impassive as ever. Altaïr doesn’t break eye contact.

“Once you have bathed,” the Master says to him, “you’re to come to my study. Be quick now.”

Altaïr bathes in the keep’s washroom, sitting shoulder-deep in steaming water and scrubbing himself with hard soap and rinsing his hair. The pebble is balanced on the tub’s edge. He can’t stop thinking about both it and the Master. The Master had expected him to react, and he had only thrown it after Altaïr’s back was turned.

Fresh towels and linen robes await him outside the door. He dries himself and puts the robes on, checking his reflection in a copper mirror. Once he finds himself presentable, he goes to the Master. The people he meets along the way cast him wary looks, looks of respect, and a little awe too. Altaïr cannot bring himself to care about what they think of him. He’s treasured the thoughts of few people in the past, and of those not in those circles, he could give less than a care to. His peers think he has small care in his heart for others, and perhaps they’re right, for he’s felt no need to correct them. They call him arrogant behind his back, though Altaïr knows in the same way that the summers hot and the winters cold that he is better than them; it’s simple truth. He excels not only in swordplay, but in the arts of poetry, verse-writing and recital, rhetoric, mathematics, science, history. He is brilliant in both heart and mind, and the Brotherhood already speaks of how lucky they are to have him.

Al Mualim’s study overlooks the main hall of the keep. Altaïr finds Labib and the Master deep in quiet conversation when he arrives. Al Mualim raises a hand to him in acknowledgement, and Altaïr stands with his feet planted wide and his hands behind his back, his chin against his chest. He waits for his teachers to be done, trying and failing not to overhear what they talk of.

“… stronger, more skilled by the day.”

“Stronger physically? Interesting.”

“Indeed. The stones we have on the plateau outside, he has progressed to those only the strongest of our brothers can hope to shift, and yet he rolls them easily. There is more to this Vision than mere skill, Master. There is something more in his blood.”

“What though, and where it comes from, are mysteries that must await a further date. Altaïr,” Al Mualim says, and he uses Altaïr’s name at proper speaking volume to address him. Altaïr crosses the room and kneels on the stone. To the side, Labib puffs his chest with pride, his cheeks glowing with a barely contained smile.

“Your performance in the ring was astounding,” Al Mualim says. “Your father would be proud of you. In his absence, let it be known that I too am proud of you.”

“Thank you, Master. I … forgive me, I could not help but overhear what you and Labib were speaking of just now. That I am different, and not in a usual way.” In his heart of hearts, Altaïr had yearned to say that he was special, not different, but he knows when to use his words, and now is not the right time.

“On your feet, Altaïr.” Altaïr stands. “You are different,” Al Mualim confirms. “Does this frighten you?”

“No. It pleases me to be able to serve the Brotherhood more readily than others.”

Al Mualim rounds his desk, staring out of the high windows and to the mountain horizon, seemingly lost in thought. “How long have you been able to sense these contortions in the world?”

“Always,” Altaïr says. “Labib has only tested my ability now.”

Altaïr more guesses than sees Labib’s irritation, but Al Mualim says before either of them can speak, “Consider, Altaïr, that Labib has only now ‘tested your ability’ because you were not fit to be tested yet.” Altaïr fights to keep from glowering. He doesn’t understand what Al Mualim is insinuating, but thinks it wise to not ask. “There are some in the village who call you demon for what you can do,” Al Mualim says. “This is not black magic you posses, but a quite natural gift.”

“Eagle Vision,” Altaïr says.

“So,” Al Mualim muses, “you overheard us in the courtyard. Then it’s not just your reflexes and strength that are greater, but your ears, and quite possibly your touch and even your taste. Our records speak of a more literal Eagle’s Vision belonging to some of the first of our Brotherhood, but such a thing has not been seen for many years now. I would like to learn more about it, with your help.”

Altaïr bends his neck. “I will do what needs to be done to further your studies, Master.”

“Good. You’re dismissed. Rest now; Labib has more tasks for you tomorrow, ones that I have requested him to test you with.”

Altaïr murmurs his thanks, and just before he leaves the study he stops once more. “Master,” he asks, “this gift, did Umar have it too?”

“He did not,” Al Mualim answers. “Nor did your mother, nor to the best of my knowledge did their parents. This is a talent that has been lost for generations amongst us. How you have it, why you have it, I do not know, but whatever the reason, it’s a boon to our cause.”

The next day when the rest of his peers are called to class for mathematics, they grumble when Labib takes Altaïr to the low field soon after breakfast, where he and a boy a few years Altaïr’s elder wait for him with a saddled horse, bows, and a collection of knives. Altaïr spends the morning galloping up and down the field, putting arrows and knives into straw targets with perfect aim every time, and to Labib’s astonishment can even do so blindfolded. He cuts the apprentice down off the horse with his practice sword, jumps and spins to avoid blunted arrows shot at him. After all is said and done Labib makes him stand on his hands for as long as he can. Altaïr collapses after a half hour of perfect stillness, trembling with bone-deep hurt.

“Astounding,” Labib mutters as he writes notes on a tablet, the only other sounds are the wind and the squeak of his pencil. They sit in a circle, and across from Altaïr, Labib’s apprentice glowers from the pain of his bruises. Altaïr himself aches terribly, and he can barely keep his eyes open.

Altaïr takes his theoretical classes alone that afternoon as the other novices train with Labib. That night when he and the others converge in their eating hall, Abbas in particular is furious. The hall is long and has a half-dozen low benches stretching its length, with cushions tucked beneath them. Chatter buzzes along the tables, though Altaïr eats in silence, grateful they have lamb tonight. Once the _da’i_ s backs are turned Abbas sneers as he sits on the opposite side of the table to Altaïr.

Altaïr eyes him with distaste. “Spit out what you want, and be quick with it.”

“I was curious how it feels to be so favoured by the Master,” Abbas says, and bites into a fig with malice.

Altaïr tells him, “That you’re fixated on my favoured relation to the Master rather than bettering yours is your battle to fight, not mine.”

Abbas’ face is tight, and Jinan, who decides at that moment to sit to Abbas’ left, bangs his plate down a little harder than necessary. “I hear that the Master plans for him to start flaying the skin off his own back to remind him that he can bleed just as easily as the rest of us.”

“If he needs reminding …” Abbas traces a line in his lips where Altaïr’s scar is.

“I’m only reminded,” Altaïr cuts over him, “that all you’re good at is flinging your pathetic hurt at me.”

If they were anywhere but the hall, Abbas and Jinan would have retaliated. Jinan twitches, but Abbas casts him a stern look. The three of them look to the teachers sitting a few places away, watching their students with hawks’ eyes. Abbas ducks his head and casts a filthy look at Altaïr from under his brows, and mouths a curse at him. Altaïr closes his teeth around a bite of lamb with utter satisfaction.

The following weeks see Altaïr separated more and more from his peers, and Al Mualim step further into his education. Altaïr and Abbas had studied under the Master’s eye together before they had turned bitter enemies, but these new lessons with him are far different, and challenging, than any of his other classes. Altaïr’s Vision is put to its limits, and both he and Al Mualim together learn what this gift means. As they had previously known, Altaïr can predict displacements in the world that affect him. He also learns that he can determine when another has ill intent towards him. He knows when to release projectiles to hit intended targets, and can catch flies buzzing around his head between thumb and forefinger.

“Perfect accuracy,” Al Mualim comments. “Tell me, Altaïr. Do you know what the Assassins seek?”

Altaïr recites, “Assassins promote peace in all things for all peoples, and fight for them where they cannot. Where there is corruption we seek to purge it, where a wound festers we treat.”

“And what does that mean?”

“We kill those who appose us, Master.”

“And what does it mean to appose us?”

“It means to go against the good of the people, to stop those who would harm them. These Crusades bring invaders who fight to take peoples homes and lives at the whim of a man sitting on his throne a thousand _parasang_ away who has never set foot here, and then because they believe their God commands it.”

“Then what were we before the Crusades? Why has our symbol existed for a thousand years and we bring others long dead before its conception under its banner?”

“Because corruption and those who fight it have always existed, and we the Brotherhood are the ever-vigilant hands that must keep it at bay.”

“The essence of corruption is a broad term,” Al Mualim says, “so where do we know to draw the line?”

“Corruption is when power is wielded for the interests of individuals or groups instead of for the people they govern,” Altaïr says with a shrug. “They work to better themselves and their lot in life at the expense of others. They step on others’ shoulders to reach the surface of the river and leave those supporting their weight to drown. These westerners wish to take this land for their benefits, their peoples, and crush all of them equally.”

Al Mualim ruminates, and Altaïr waits for his verdict with his neck bent. “Good,” the Master intones. “We shall work on your answers presently.”

Altaïr is soon sent from Masyaf to study under the eyes of the _rafiqs_ , putting his skills into the real world and gathering information on those who are deemed to die by the Master’s hand. As Altaïr sits in the bureaus and watches the Assassins come and go with varying degrees of success in their work, he burns with the want to take up his own mantle, and act on the information he has been bidden to find for others to use. He knows that he is better, and that when he is finally an Assassin in full, he will be great.

He gets his wish soon enough. Six months after his fifteenth birthday, his finger is taken the same day he earns his blade. The first man he kills is a corrupt Christian preacher in the Crusader-held city of Seecip. It is then Altaïr discovers he possesses yet another gift none of his brothers do. Always he has been aware of the eyes on him, for he feels them against his skin. He’s been aware of every person who was soon to touch him, whether they were conscious of it or not.

He arrives in the city’s bureau to find the _rafiq_ waiting for him behind a long counter littered with scrolls and letters. Altaïr reads several words of Brotherhood correspondence before the _rafiq_ turns the parchment over. “I’m glad to see you’ve arrived safely, Altaïr. You have what you need?”

“A name,” Altaïr responds. “A Christian preacher. Al Mualim said you would tell me what I need to know about his habits around the city.”

“And so I shall. You have three days to do the deed.”

Altaïr gets to work. He finds the preacher is a man of the Christian God only in name, and that he uses his influence in the city for his own ends rather than for the betterment of the people as he claims to do. He investigates the marketplace and learns that many of the merchants have issue with the preacher’s spending habits, all of which are to be paid later but never are, and that he uses the Crusaders to keep a shield between himself and the people when they come forward with their complaints. He takes more than half of the donations made to the churches for himself, and indulges in the pleasures that the priesthood vows against.

On the third day, Altaïr is ready to kill him. He finds the preacher’s home and sits there, watching the door well before sunrise, upon which the preacher leaves. He gives offering at his church before leaving for other tasks. Altaïr shadows the man for half the day, itching to strike and waiting for the time to do it. He’s a tall, thin man, with a beard that reaches his collarbones and dressed in black robes made of the finest wool. He walks amongst the people with arrogance, spitting at the Muslims and Jews. To Christians he is respectful, and it makes Altaïr’s clinical dislike of the man turn to hatred. He stops in a crouch over the lip of the roof he commands, shivering.

 _Never have a hate for your victims, Altaïr. Such thoughts are poison and will cloud your judgement_ , the Master had said to him. Altaïr breathes long and deep as he gathers his emotions and pushes them down.

When the sun reaches its zenith he leaps on the preacher in the market he so loved to frequent, bowling the man over and stabbing him in the junction of neck and shoulder. When he kills the preacher, he feels a deep pull on his mind, and tumbles into it before he can start to understand what it is. He opens his eyes to a space unlike he’s ever seen before. Once when he was little more than a boy, two years after his father’s death, he had stolen a small cache of poppy tears from the Brotherhood’s medicinal supplies and snuck off with Abbas to share it. The blue haze surrounding him now reminds him of the fogginess of his mind, and he sways where he stands, his eyelids fluttering in memory. Then he hears a soft weeping, and focuses his attention once more.

Not far from him is the preacher, his face buried in his hands as he cries. Altaïr grabs him by the collar of his robe. “Be silent! You have no right to weep for your death, old man.”

“What man doesn’t have that right?” the preacher wails. “Leave me be already. Haven’t you done enough, Assassin? Must you also push my face into the dirt?”

“Why should it matter to you? You’re dead, and you will not be missed.”

“Not quite dead yet, it seems. I linger … I wouldn’t have thought the Angel of Death would come for me in the guise of a heretical murderer. God will punish you.”

“ ‘Heretic’?” Altaïr sneers. “ ‘Beware of the teachers of the law. They like to walk around in flowing robes and love to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces and have the most important seats in the synagogues and the places of honour at banquets. They devour widows' fortunes and make a show out of reciting prayers. Theirs will be the greater condemnation’. From your Book of Luke. Do not speak of heresy to me, it is the rot your sins have set in this city you die for.”

Altaïr is snapped back into the real world. He leaps away from the body, panting for breath. Then he hears the screams of the market-goers and flees to the rooftops, hurtling back to the bureau. He slithers through the wooden grid on the roof and lands in a crouch before the bureau’s drinking fountain. He drops the bloodied feather on the _rafiq_ ’s counter and stalks to the back of the shop, huddling up into a ball. He doesn’t care that he’s covered in blood.

“Tea, Altaïr?” Altaïr glares at the _rafiq_ , and the man shrugs. “The first is always the hardest. I have water and towels for the blood.” He touches a wooden bowl on the counter, and Altaïr snatches it, scrubbing at the blood caked under his nails and careful to avoid the still healing stump of his left ring finger. “The others tell me you did well,” the _rafiq_ says, and Altaïr moves his shoulder away as the _rafiq_ reaches to lay a hand on it. The _rafiq_ takes his hand back and resumes his seat behind the counter. “If you need to talk —”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Altaïr snaps, and it’s the truth. “I need to speak to the Master.”

“If that’s your wish. You’re to leave at dawn tomorrow during first prayers. Do be careful; you’ll be watched for.”

Altaïr hides the white robes beneath a muddy brown cloak, and when dawn pinks the sky and the minarets begin echo with prayer, he scales the city walls around the Christian guards. He Senses where to put his hands and feet, skittering upwards and sideways like a spider, and by the time he’s collected the arranged horse from a farm two miles away no one is the wiser. If he had expected anything other than a nod of satisfaction from the Master, he’s to be disappointed. However, his peers’ awe is enough for Altaïr’s wants.

And so the years go on. More of the class gains their places and their blades, but it is Altaïr who’s the first to achieve the rank of Master Assassin at the tender age of twenty-four, the youngest ever. By then Altaïr has grown tall and handsome, and so steeped within the Brotherhood his heart has grown rotten with arrogance; he doesn’t care. Al Mualim’s favour for him permeates every corner of the castle, so it is impossible to ignore his presence. The admiration for Altaïr as well as the dislike of him creates a rift in the inhabitants. Many try to get close to him so they may share some of his sun, but Altaïr pushes them all away.

With his success he becomes careless with the Brotherhood, and loses sight of what they want. He grows restless, and then with the death of the Chalice Adha, the first woman he loves, jaded. However Altaïr remains the Master’s favoured pupil, and it is of little surprise he tasks him to find a treasure the following year beneath Jerusalem.

Altaïr frowns when he learns he’ll not be acting alone in this pursuit.

“Malik Al-Sayf is, like you, one of our best,” Al Mualim says when Altaïr comes to him with doubts, “and this is not a mission to be done alone.”

“You trusted me to find the Chalice alone,” Altaïr protests.

“I did, but I place far more value in this mission than I ever did with the Chalice,” Al Mualim tells him. “You, Malik, and Kadar will leave for Jerusalem at dawn, and you will return to me with the prize I seek.”

“This trinket must be important to you if you don’t trust me to do this,” Altaïr says, surly.

“Are you a child or a man?” Al Mualim snaps. “I am your Master, and this is the task I have assigned you. You, _all_ of you, leave at dawn.”

Malik is a stoic individual with a certain straight-forwardness people found both amusing and disagreeable; mostly he well-liked around the keep. People agree that despite his bluntness his council is sage and his heart devoted. He, like Altaïr, is equally unhappy by this turn of events and makes no effort to hide it; he offers no words of greeting at the dawn, where Altaïr waits for them at the keep’s stables. In fact the only one of the group that is excited for this glorified errand is Malik’s younger brother Kadar, still a novice within the Brotherhood. Altaïr’s day-to-day activities have little to do with novices; he only sees them from the high window of his sleeping cell and within the bureaus of the cities he visits, but he never speaks to them. He has other, more important things to do than entertain novices. Kadar is sixteen, and this his second mission. He hasn’t earnt his blade yet, and Altaïr groans with the thought of looking out for the wellbeing of this child.

The trek to Jerusalem is uneventful, and the most challenging thing they do on the road is hide from westerners and Saracens alike, neither group being friendly to the Assassins. Hardly any words are exchanged between Altaïr and Malik, but Kadar’s chatter fills the roads for the first two days. “Altaïr,” he asks, hushed as they ride side-by-side, “do you now what the Master’s asked us to retrieve?”

“A treasure,” Altaïr answers as he bats a fly away from his nose. “One that we will know when we see it.”

It’s not long before Kadar too lapses into silence. Altaïr sleeps apart from the brothers when they make camp for the night, honing the edges of his weapons and wondering what, exactly, this treasure Al Mualim seeks is. He casts a glance to Malik and Kadar.

Jerusalem looms through watery daylight late one morning, and they set up camp away from the city walls. Malik bids Kadar to run to the city’s bureau to inform the _rafiq_ of their presence, but that they will not be staying. “The Master wants us to be in and out of the city with this prize, and that means keeping it away from the guards,” Malik says as they wait for Kadar’s return. “He’s taking no risks with this treasure.”

“Of course not. If he was willing to take risks he wouldn’t have sent me for a fetch task,” Altaïr responds.

Malik doesn’t make an attempt to hide how he rolls his eyes. “Careful, Altaïr,” he says. “No one likes an arrogant man.”

“If I was wanting your wisdom I would ask,” Altaïr says. “But I didn’t.” He looks around suddenly, prodding with the Vision. “Be ready, Kadar returns.”

* * *

“Wait, there must be another way. This one need not die.”

_He is a liability. There is no other way. He needs to die._

Altaïr falls upon the old man with his blade extended. The tunnels so far had been abandoned of any soul, until he and the others had come across the man. _A scout, a warning to the Templars._ Whoever he is, he had chosen the wrong time to be here. The man slumps to the ground, a last breath upon his lips. It is the only noise he makes.

“An excellent kill,” Kadar says in a hush as Altaïr wipes the blood from his blade. “Fortune favours your blade.”

“Not fortune,” Altaïr tells him, “skill. Watch a while longer, and you might learn something.”

“Indeed, brother,” Malik glowers. “He’ll teach you how to disregard everything the Master’s taught us.”

“Then what would _you_ have done?” Altaïr asks mockingly.

“ _I_ would not have drawn attention to us,” Malik bites. “ _I_ would not have taken the life of an innocent. What _I_ would have done is follow the Creed.”

“ ‘Nothing is true, everything is permitted’; I understand these words, and that is not how we complete our task.”

“But this is not the way of —”

“My way,” Altaïr cuts him off, “is better.”

Malik’s face twists in want to argue, but he only says flatly, “I’ll scout ahead. Try, Altaïr, not to dishonour us further.”

Kadar looks from his brother’s back to Altaïr, swallowing. Altaïr blinks and follows in the direction Malik had gone, jumping over a old pit in the floor. The tunnels of Solomon’s Quarry date back hundreds of years, and nature has eroded any marks of pickaxes or other stones used to clear the way. It is cramped and lightless except for the burning torches along the way which Altaïr extinguishes after Kadar has gone before him. They find Malik a few minutes later crouched in the shadows of the tunnel, his eyes fixed on the back of a Templar guard. Altaïr doesn’t so much as pause. He runs up on silent feet and puts his blade through the soldier’s jaw and up into his brain; he doesn’t have time to slide the hidden blade around the gorget he wears. He almost snorts at Malik’s obvious anger, and leaves the body pooling in its own blood behind him, flicking the hidden blade clean. A square of light shines up ahead, torches through a doorway of stone. Kadar is on Altaïr’s heels, and together the two of them creep through the doorway and into the room beyond.

The room is not rough-hewn rock, but a room with carved edifices, one which they stand on. The room is two hundred feet high, but only fifty across, crumbling and old. The lit torches and recent scaffolding speak enough of the interest that the city’s lords hold in it. This must be Solomon’s Temple.

Malik slinks in behind them. “There,” he says suddenly, pointing below. “That must be the treasure.”

Altaïr cannot help but frown when he sees a gaudy golden chest nestled on a high plinth, and recognises it. Of course he has heard the Templars have kept what they believe to be the Ark of the Covenant here beneath Haram al-Sharif, but had always discarded it as propaganda, a false promise to lure believers into the city from every corner of the world. The Christian pilgrims revere it and are willing to spend every penny they own to come here, using Templar banks and donating to them all the while. The Ark is a holy relic of their Order. But there it is, or something so like it it has Malik and Kadar believing. It must also be Al Mualim’s prize; perhaps this is why the Master had needed three for this task, no one man can smuggle this chest out of the city and carry it back to Masyaf. Altaïr glances at the others. Both of them are enthralled by it, their eyes big as moons.

“What is it?” Kadar asks in a hush.

Altaïr looks at the Ark again, and cannot understand what is so fascinating. None of them believed in anything holy, and all of them have seen holy relics before, and none had captured their attentions. Upon looking at it again, Altaïr does concede there is a factor of difference about it, what he doesn’t know, but there is something there, an aura.

The spell is broken when they hear the clang of armoured knights. Footsteps echo on the stone floors and walls.

A group of knights conversing in rapid French enter into the room below, white cloaks billowing behind them. The blood red crosses on their chests speak enough to know who they are.

The leader is one of the tallest men Altaïr has ever seen. His face is cold, his brow heavy and nose aquiline, and his head clean-shaven. He points to the Ark. “I want this through the gate before sunrise. The sooner we possess it, the sooner we can turn our attention to those jackals at Masyaf.”

“Robert de Sablé,” Altaïr spits. “His life is mine.”

Next to him, Malik had been in the middle of wondering, almost dreamily, “But their Order possesses the Ark already, why have they stooped to stealing it from themselves?” when he hears Altaïr’s words. He grabs Altaïr by the arm, and Altaïr throws him off, offended that anyone dare touch him. “ _No_ ,” Malik says forcefully.

“ ‘No’?” Altaïr repeats, incredulous. Adha clouds his thoughts. Anger, despair, hatred, the idea of the Master’s satisfaction upon delivering de Sablé’s head, all of it has taken him by storm. Altaïr is beyond thoughts of the careful controlling of his emotions he had been taught as a boy, and he thirsts for action, and death.

“We were asked to retrieve the treasure and deal with Robert only if necessary,” Malik tells him, like addressing a disobedient child.

“He stands between us and it; I’d say it’s necessary.”

“Discretion, Altaïr!”

“You mean cowardice.” Altaïr jabs a finger down at de Sablé. “That man is our greatest enemy, and here we have a chance to be rid of him.”

“You have already broken two tenets of our Creed,” Malik says, “now you would break the third.”

“I am your superior, in both title and ability,” Altaïr declares, and there is a hum in his ears, an urge to kill. “You should know better than to question me.” And with that he abandons Malik and Kadar, jumping to the chamber floor and landing in a crouch. The knights whip around as he straightens up. Altaïr says in French, “Hold. You’re not the only ones with business here.”

“Ah,” de Sablé breathes as Malik and Kadar drop behind Altaïr. “This explains my missing man. And what is it you want, jackal?”

Altaïr can feel Malik’s eyes on the back of his head, but he can’t care. His focus is singular as every muscle in his body tenses.

“Blood.”

Malik grabs at Altaïr as he strikes for Robert with his hidden blade, and as he does so, the unthinkable happens. Altaïr’s Vision fails him, and de Sablé catches his wrist. Malik had also touched him without his Sensing it above, and for the first time Altaïr feels doubt in his heart. Something was wrong. He exclaims wordlessly, pushing towards de Sablé with all his great strength. De Sablé, however, is like a bull. He grunts but doesn’t move, pushing back with equal force.

“You know not the things in which you meddle, Assassin,” de Sablé says, his face an inch from Altaïr’s. Altaïr renews his efforts to push the blade into de Sablé’s neck, but he can’t move, the angle of their entangled arms is wrong, de Sablé has the advantage in that, and for it he is winning their struggle. He twists Altaïr around, and Altaïr can’t get a footing. The knights hold Malik and Kadar back at swordpoint as de Sablé takes Altaïr by the front of his robes. “I spare you only that you may return to your Master and deliver a message — the Holy Land is lost to him and his, and he should flee now whilst he has the chance. Stay, and all of you will _die_.” He throws Altaïr through the arch from where they came and into rickety scaffolding behind. Altaïr crashes through, and the wood collapses, the stonework atop it falling over the doorway and sealing the room.

“Altaïr!” Kadar screams as Altaïr tumbles, battered and bruised.

“Kill the Assassins!” de Sablé commands, and Altaïr throws himself at the stonework, trying to pry it away from the door.

“ _De Sablé!_ ” he bellows, but it’s drowned by the clash of swords and the cries of men. Altaïr tries to get inside in vain, but soon all becomes quiet, and he stumbles back, panting. Dawning’s light spills from somewhere behind him, and Altaïr grits his teeth. The Master’s treasure is lost, and without a way into the room, he must to retreat to Masyaf with the news.

* * *

The earth bakes in the sun, the mud cracks. The spring has been hot this year, and the scholars say that it will be a blazing summer that will last until the seasons turn to winter. The sun beats down on Altaïr’s shoulders, and he blinks groggily at the horse’s neck. It’s been two weeks since his confrontation with de Sablé, and the knowledge of his failure gnaws at his insides. He doesn’t dread the Master’s wrath and disappointment, but it is hardly a conversation he anticipates. He goes over it in his head for an uncounted time, and assuring himself that so long as he can make the Master understand, he will be forgiven.

The scouts greet him when he comes to the village’s gate, and the young stablehand that comes for Altaïr’s horses asks, “Where’re Kadar and Malik?” Altaïr stalks past the boy without a word, dropping the lead rein into his hands.

Altaïr climbs the steep path to the keep, and his already bad mood sours when he sees none other than Abbas beneath the portcullis. He hopes to push past the wretched man, but Abbas stands in his way, and his eyes dance with cruel mirth. “Ah, the glorious son returns at last.” He makes a show of looking over Altaïr’s shoulder. “Where are the others? Did you ride ahead hoping to be the first one back? I know,” he sneers, “you are loathe to share the glory.”

“Have you nothing better to do?” Altaïr asks, devoid of emotion.

“I bring word from the Master,” Abbas says, and crosses his arms. “He waits for you in the library. Best hurry; no doubt you’re eager to put your tongue to his boot.”

Altaïr straightens to his full height. “Another word, _brother_ , and I’ll put my blade to your throat.” He brushes past Abbas and into the fort proper. The keep’s inhabitants welcome him back, but Altaïr is focused on the Master. He recounts his practiced answers over in his mind as he climbs the steps at the end of the main hall to the mezzanine where the Master keeps his study, and finds him there, tracing his fingers along the spines of his favoured tomes. He turns when Altaïr comes to him.

Altaïr kneels on the stone and lowers his head. “Master.”

Al Mualim motions for him to rise as he crosses behind his desk and folds his hands behind his back. “I trust you have recovered the Templar’s treasure?”

“I … There was some trouble, Master,” Altaïr says quietly. “Robert de Sablé was not alone. I have failed you.”

“What do you mean?” the Master asks. “The treasure?”

“Lost to us.”

“And Robert?”

“Escaped.”

Silence reigns for a second, for two. The Master’s jaw clenches. “I send you, my best man, to complete a mission more important than any that has come before, and you return to me with nothing but apologies and excuses?” Altaïr is no stranger to Al Mualim’s wrath, but he has not been its subject for years. Shame creeps on him, and all of his careful words have scattered from his mind like dandelion seeds on the wind.

“I did —”

“Do not _speak_!” Al Mualim thunders. “Not another word!”

“Master, I swear to you I’ll find it,” Altaïr placates. “I’ll —”

“ _No_ ,” Al Mualim bites. “You’ve done enough.” The words sink like a lead weight into the pit of Altaïr’s stomach. “Where are Malik and Kadar?”

“Dead.” Altaïr has barely thought of them except in anger. If only Malik hadn’t interfered.

The Master dismisses him in anger, and Altaïr retreats to his lonely tower cell and doesn’t emerge until the dead of night for food. Even then he does not let the lone boy tending the kitchen fires see him. He looks upon the Master only once the next day as he pours intently over his correspondences. Altaïr delivers his report to Al Mualim’s desk and leaves; the Master barely glances at him.

Two days later, there’s a clamour at the gate. There is a Templar host coming up through the mountains; the scouts report a thousand-men strong, and though the Assassins may be skilled in death-dealing, they cannot fight off a thousand heavily armed and armoured men. They must bring the villagers into the keep too, and amongst them is fear of a siege. Al Mualim however is more furious than concerned about this development. The fortress is defensible from a host ten times the number of de Sablé’s rallied men, but still the Master’s wroth is turned upon Altaïr for bringing them here.

“How could _I_ have done this? I took nothing,” Altaïr fumes in his sleeping cell. The Templars must be fools if they were to spend such resources marching their men into these treacherous mountains for pursuit of a single Assassin. Four hours later, though, the real reason for their presence is made known.

A rider, drenched in blood and filth, waits for the gates to open. It’s Malik. “Impossible,” Altaïr says as news travels rapidly to the keep, but naught a few minutes later Malik is ushered into Al Mualim’s study. If Altaïr didn’t know any better he would have thought Malik a walking corpse. His left arm hangs limp and stinking of rot, and he is grey with illness, the flesh clinging to his bones. Al Mualim stands regal and proud as an eagle, but Malik’s fevered eyes skirt over him and towards Altaïr who stands behind the Master’s shoulder. Malik burns with a hatred even Abbas cannot match.

“Altaïr had reported you dead,” the Master says.

“No,” Malik replies grimly, and his teeth peel back from his lips. “ _I_ still live at least!”

“Robert threw me from the room, there was no way back,” Altaïr protests. “There was nothing I could do.”

“Because you would not heed my warning! All of this could have been avoided, and my brother … my brother would still be alive!” He points at Altaïr with his good hand. “Your arrogance nearly cost us victory.”

Al Mualim asks, “ ‘Nearly’?”

Malik says, “I have what your favourite failed to find.” And from within the depths of his robe, Malik pulls a tarnished metal sphere.

“Give it to me, child,” Al Mualim demands. “Quickly.” Malik hesitates for a fraction of a second, but then gives it to the Master. When it leaves his hand Malik near-collapses, shivering with chill. Two men swoop on him and take him away.

Altaïr stares after him. “He’ll lose the arm,” he says.

“And let it be a reminder whenever you set your eyes upon him that it is because of you.” The Master strikes Altaïr across the face. He doesn’t roll away from the blow, and takes the punishment silently. “However many more men lose their limbs and lives in this fight,” the Master says, “let them weigh on your consciousness as much as Kadar.”

 _Men die_ , Altaïr thinks viciously, tonguing the blood on his lip, _that is life, my Master,_ our _lives are death._ In his frustration he longs to spit the words, but he kneels on the stone with his head bowed and keeps it to himself.

The Master looks to the sphere in his hand and then to Altaïr. “We’re not done here. You’ll play your part to defend the people and these walls.”

Altaïr’s temple throbs, and beneath the rim of his hood he screws his eyes shut. “If that is what you wish.”

“It is. Now go.” Altaïr doesn’t get up right away; his world is spinning from the blow so much so he must gather his bearings. It worries him how much it’s set an ache in his temple. The Master’s fingers tighten on the sphere. “I said — go.”

Altaïr stands, hiding the wobble in his legs. He bows once and leaves, and feels the Master’s frown on his shoulders.

They only have hours to spare. Most of the villagers have already taken residence within the keep’s walls, but there are stragglers caught below, people too ill or stubborn or too foolish to leave their homes. Altaïr goes to their aid when the Templars batter at their gates. It takes but a half hour for them to break through. He cuts down de Sablé’s men as his brothers take the villagers to safety, and his mind calms. There is killing to be done. He bends around arrows and swords and flashing horses’ hooves, and when the cry for retreat comes, Altaïr’s robes are red with French blood. Around his feet, dying men lay screaming for help.

Altaïr is summoned to the parapet by one of the only men he could consider a friend, Rauf. There is a glimmer in his eye. “We have a surprise for our guests.” Altaïr understands.

The Templars hammer at the keep’s gates. The men hoot and holler, they chant and bang their swords on their shields. The racket is something awful, but hardly Altaïr’s concern. At their head Robert de Sablé sits astride a silver destrier fit for a king. Above him the Master stands, looking down his hooked nose as if the Templar were nothing more than scum on the bottom of his shoe.

“Heretic!” de Sablé screams. “Return what you have stolen from me!”

“You have no claim to it, Robert,” the Master replies. “Take yourself from here, before I’m forced to thin your ranks further.”

“You play a dangerous game.”

“I assure you, this is no game.”

“So be it. Bring forward the hostage!”

The Templar soldiers shove an Assassin forward. No, not an Assassin, Altaïr realises, but a novice. The boy’s face is streaked with tears, and Altaïr can hear his sniffles. He doubts anyone else can. De Sablé is the one to cut him down. His greatsword flashes in the sun as he drives it into the junction of the boy’s neck and shoulder, near splitting him in two. The corpse tumbles to the dust. Rauf catches Altaïr’s eye, and the two of them as well as another Altaïr doesn’t know the name of climb to the gate’s high tower.

“Your village lies in ruins,” de Sablé says, “and your stores are hardly endless. How long before your fortress crumbles from within? How disciplined will your men remain when the wells run dry and their food is gone?”

“My men do not fear death, Robert,” the Master says, “they welcome it, and the rewards it brings.”

“Good. Then they shall have it all ‘round.”

Three platforms stretch from the tower and out into the sky. Altaïr steps out on the first, Rauf the second, and the other Assassin the third. Altaïr begins to collect himself.

“Show this fool knight what it is to have no fear!” the Master calls. “Go to God!”

Altaïr leaps, and the peace he feels in that time between his heartbeats, the rush of wind in his ears and the fall slows his heart. He lands in the prepared bales of hay, and Senses as the third Assassin lands awkwardly. The man bites down on his scream as his leg shatters.

“Quiet,” Rauf hisses, “or they will hear us.”

Altaïr goes on alone, balancing on the rickety beams leading around the back of the watchtower. He pays no attention to the dizzying drop of the ravine below. He climbs the tower quickly, using the walls as much as their handholds as leverage. He keeps low when he reaches the top, creeping on cat’s feet to the groaning mass of logs waiting to fall upon an attacking host. Altaïr cuts the ropes holding them, and the Templars in their neat ranks have only seconds of warning. Altaïr Senses their lives crushed, and their last screams echo in Masyaf’s canyons.

“Pathetic,” Altaïr whispers as he looks down his nose at the fleeing knights. Across on the battlements, the Master stares at him rather than de Sablé.

The carnage is unspeakable, and Altaïr walks amongst the dead to be let back into the keep. De Sablé is nowhere to be seen. He is met with grim silence by the Assassins, and finds the Master waiting for him. Altaïr climbs the steps to the keep’s door. The courtyard is silent, a thousand pairs of eyes on him belonging to Assassins, men, women, and children alike. Altaïr’s skin itches; he wants to shake them all off like a dog shakes off fleas. When he presents himself to the Master, two Assassins flank him. Altaïr’s lip curls.

The Master studies him, his hands held behind his back. Altaïr’s shoulders are stiff with tension. “Tell me — do you know _why_ it is you are successful?” When Altaïr offers no words, the Master says, “Because you _listened_.” And then his voice becomes gravel as he continues, “Would that you had listened in Solomon’s Temple. All of this would have been avoided.” Altaïr hears the dead novice’s whimpers again. “Do you have anything to say?”

“I did as I was asked,” Altaïr says through his teeth.

“No,” the Master says harshly, “you did as you pleased. Malik has told me of the arrogance you displayed, the _disregard_ of our ways.” The Master tips his head to the Assassins beside Altaïr; they grab him.

Altaïr jerks against them, but he can’t do anything, he must obey, he has no choice but to. Still he demands, “What are you doing?”

Al Mualim starts to pace up and down, and he looks at Altaïr, his good eye deep with anger. “We are nothing of we do not abide by the Creed.” Altaïr wants to laugh in Rashid’s face. Al Mualim bears down upon him. “Three simple tenets you seem to forget.”

“I do not _forget_ ,” Altaïr snarls. “ ‘Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent —’ ”

For the second time Al Mualim strikes him, and there is a ripple from amongst the Assassins. Mortification coils in Altaïr’s chest, and hate. “And stay your tongue! Lest I give you leave to use it. Make humble your heart, child, or I swear I will tear it from you with my own hands.” Al Mualim composes himself. “The second is that which gives us strength — ‘Hide in plain sight’. Do you remember? Because as I hear it you chose to expose yourself! And the third and final tenet, the worst of all your betrayals. Speak it.”

“ ‘Do not compromise the Brotherhood’.” Altaïr cannot hold back the defeat in his tone.

“Yes, and its meaning should be obvious. Your actions should _never_ bring harm upon us, direct or indirect. Look behind you, great Assassin! See the people who have suffered because of you!”

Altaïr looks behind him, breathing hard as his gaze roves over the crowd. The only face he lingers upon is Abbas’, and the eagerness upon it burns. His eyes are torn away when he Senses danger. He jerks back when he sees the knife in the Master’s hand.

“I am sorry, child,” Al Mualim says as he holds the knife. “Truly I am, but I cannot abide a traitor.”

Altaïr can’t obey the clanging warnings of the Vision, he can’t avoid the knife coming for him. Although he can’t get away, he will not beg for mercy.

Al Mualim stabs him. At first he feels the knife like a blow. Once the shock of it fades the pain comes, and Altaïr must cry out. He hears a confused babble of men asking, _Did the Master really kill his favourite man?_ , _He surely didn’t …_ , _Good riddance_.

Fog clutches at him with thin tendrils for fingers. Altaïr tastes blood on his lips, and feels slick warmth running down his side. He’s so heavy. The last thing he’s aware of is Al Mualim’s fingers cupping his cheek, and in his Vision, Abbas’ satisfaction.

 

 

t̛̤̙̹̪͔̅̈͊̌͒̎ͬͬ͑̄̊͐͘ĥ̡͕̹̻̜̜̲̥͕̘͍̠̥̰̥̟̈́͑̃̿ͥ͂̓̎̐̓̒ͨ͂̑̈́͗͡͠ȇ̙͈͇͖̙̰̟̣̼͇̻̱̭̼̼̣̀̈́̍̂̒͑͘ͅ ̵̡̛̛̞̲̺̰̩̤͎̭̲̼͂̑͒ͯ̋̈́̈̐̆͛ͫ̽̊̏̊̔͌̒p̎̈́̋͌ͭ͋̏̄̑ͫ̓́̉͐̚͝҉̸̹͓̫̜̼̼͙̺̳͇͓i̸̢̛̙̲̟̦͍̙͗ͭ̇́ͮͤͬͨ̿̒̊ͤ̽̈v̧̼̪̬͖̪̗̉̅ͩͮ͒̇̓͗͌́̀̈͋̽ͬ͞ò̶̴̶̻͚̳̺̱͈͉̱̻̌̐̈́̎̀͒͢͠t̔ͣͦ̈́ͧ͂̀͜͏͚̞̺̖̞a̴̴͓̞̮̠̫̬̗̹̹̯͕̼̠̓͌̐̃̑̍͌̆̂̃͊ͭ͑͂ͥ͜͝l̛͚͖̖͇̰̬̩͉̻̝̮̳̲̺ͩ̋̆̒ͫ͑ͤͫ̿̿ͣ͛̌͗̀͝ ̸̶̸̤͇̫̤͉̥̦̳̹͖̤̭̣͕̪͛̍͆̀̌̕͠m̵̡̗̹̤̘͔̪͇͈̗͚̪̱̺̗̻ͫ̽̏͗̃͐̍͂̓ͪ̾̚͝ͅͅö̴̅ͬ̈́̑͂̾͑̄͑͒ͧ͏̼͔̤̪͎̤͍̪̭̫͕̲͈̦m̛̺̯̜͖̠̹̺̪͍̫̪̮̗̰̰̥͍͊͒̊͒͘ë̷̴̛̗̮͍͇̽̓̕͞n̸̅ͥͨ̓͛ͦ̒ͫ̌̋ͥ̈̌̚͠͏̷̮̜̲̻͖̖͙͕͚̯t͒̇ͭ̅́ͭ̉̀̀ͣ̈́̑̈́͡͞҉̴̘̪̬̰͓̳͍͈͈͈͇͇̦̘̱͖ ̸̶̢͓͕̮̞̓͊͋́͒̔͗̏ͨ̄ͯ̌ͤ̕ỵ̸̰͚͍ͮ̑̓̋ͧͮ̔͛ͪ̿ͭo̸̡̖̙͈̖̖̬͓͉̺͈͓̳͎̠͚̩̼̣͚ͭ̃̿̒͗ͭ̃͑͊̎ͮ͘u̵̯̜̩̙̖̖͚̮͎̩̺̦̗̱ͥ͆̚͡͠ ̴̛̜̻̳̭̫̜̳͉͖̭̪͈̭̹̟̅̈ͦ̆͞ä͚͈̯̝̳͚͚̀̅͆̒̍̾̒̾͆͛̓̅͒̿̂̂ͅr̴̺͕̩̘̬̻̬̣̪͚̞͍ͮ̾̿ͣͥ̉̋̒ͩ̏ͫͥ͋͋̚̚͞͠ͅe̶̯̮͍͕̦̰͚͖̹͖̹̠̣̣̓ͮ̈̆͗̀̈ͯͨ̍ͯͣ͒̔͝͡ͅ ̶̧̢͍̰̦̫̥̦̪̞̹͚̙͆ͪͯ̋́̽͗̐̂̀͌ͯ͘͞ͅn̴̲̼̯̰̣̖̬̝̳͕̭̤̓ͫ̓ͣ͗̉ͭ̎ͩͥ̆ͣ͡͠ḛ͎̫̰͕ͥ͆̈̌̂̾͟͝ë̴̡̤̘̥̱̪̬͙͍̭̠̼̘́̓̍ͯ͒͠d̢̛̳̰͚̤͇͚̠̯̼̠̼̮͉͕̺̤̦̘ͪ͒ͭ̐̏͋͗ͥ͡ęͦ̈́ͦ̉ͪ̇̄͐̔̂ͧ̊ͦ̉́҉̛͖̭̜͕͚̤̣͓͉̱̰̹͈̯̥d̶̰̪̞̱̱͙̗̊̓̅̋͑ͤͮ̈́ͦ̃ͮ̈̍̑̌ͧ͢͢ ̧̨̖͉̻͙͈͚̿̆ͪ̇̌͂̑̑ͩ̋s̛̳̖̯̗͇̤̉̑͒̐ͯͣ̈̏ͭͣ̋͗ͨ̉͂̈͢͡͠͠o̊ͬͦ̃̓ͧͪ̀ͧ̒̒̊͜͢҉̭̣͇̖͈͕̼̻͙̖͍̘̩̠ ̇̋̇̓̓͑͞͏̶̕҉̭͎̟̬͎ͅd̛͖̫̩̮ͧͩ̈́̉ͬ̂͒ͮ̐͜͡ë̢͕͎̖͖̫̤̱̙͉̣̱͕̯ͯͭ͋͑ͮ͂̌́̎̒̾ͣ̒̋̏̎͘͢ş̸̼̞̤͓͚̟̻̼͈̱͚͆̂̊̑͒̏̃͑̃p̸̛̩̤̤̫̲͕̦̙̮̺̺̖̫̱̆ͪ͊̓̏͞ę̦̼̥͚̥̪̝͔̝͕̘ͧ̊̃̈́̍̓̋ͪͭ͐͂̌͛̆̒͟r̮̖͎̫̰͋̄̔̐͐͜͢͢a͇̩̘͍ͮͫ͂ͧ͑̅ͧ͘͟͞t̶̸͔̘̲͖̦̯̫̳̯̘̻̥̜͉͙͚̋̂̓ͭͪ̀̿̃̃̐ͦ̏̍̐̑͑̒̚͘͘ḛ̶̤̠̱̲͔͕̼̫̯̮͍̫̳͚̝͇͍͖̔ͫ̿̿̈͢ľ̖̳̩͎̞͚̪̟̞͓̠͓͒̋̏͂ͯ̍̎͗̌ͮ̓ͪͤͭͧ̃̑̕̕y̸̢̢͕̯̟̺̫͔̼̬̳̩̠͉̒ͣͭ̏ͯ̋̏͡ ̢̛̘͚̬̥̝̯̣̜̝̘́ͯͮ̌ͨ̋̇̅̈́̓ͅỳ̷̸̸̸̹̻͇̲͓̻͕̤̦̬̖͕͓̖̻͖̪ͨ̂̾̈́ͥ̾͗ͨ͗̽̎͆̍̔ͥ͆͆͢ớ̡͓̝͕̪̰̩̣͖͔̭̱̺͍͍̼̥͈͕̃͐̍͂́̊̌ͥ̆̏̇ͤ́̈ͬ̚͡͠u̖̤̯̺̯̹̭̩̘̰͎̺̅͋ͬͦͧ̊̌̉͜͝ͅ ̵̶̣̮͕̙͔̦̪̱̃͌ͯ̓̐̿ͨ͛̓̂̈̑ͯ̐̆̆̈̍ͅc̶̨̛͑̀̎̿ͫ͂ͪ͒ͧ̾ͭ͏̷̜̖̱̺̥̳͖͎̪̥̼̦͙ảͭͭ͒̈҉̦͔̘̪͇̹͔̹̱͘ͅn͔͖͉͔̔ͬ͑͗͛ͣ̓͊̐͒̉́̒ͦͬͥ̃̕͘͜͢n̨̢̩̝͇̭͍͚̦̯̟̘̜̊͑ͪ̍̊͒̕͝ͅò̧̤̝̫̹̝̟̻̘͓̖̻̂ͥ͗͘͢ţ̟̯͎̼͍̩͕̙͇̬̜̜̟͍̣̑́ͪ̌͗͟͜ ̛̪͚̻̠̘͈̤̝̲̼̮̲͕̤̞̮̑ͫ̑ͬ̾̒̍pͣͪͬ̔ͫͫ̽ͥͨ̑ͯ̐̾̍ͯ҉̴̘̱̬̘̤̪̫̝͎͚͍̣͖͚̩̖͕͙͇͞͞o̸̷̳̘̯̬̭͙͓͉̥͓̝̹̦̺͙̜̗̊̐͛͒̒͠͠͞sͮ͑͌̂̍̏̀ͬ̑̇͌ͦ́͐ͤ̎ͫͭ͏̶͖̟̖͕̲̜̼̩͉̙͍̼͚͕͙̬͢͞s̴̓̂̍͑̀ͫͧ̿͊̀͞҉̢̥̪͓̥̜̟̠̲͎͕̭̯͙̱͍̥̲̘̳i͂̄ͧ͌͂̉̌ͭͬ̈́̓̔҉̢̝̗͓̱͉͚̙b̨̢̖͕̖̱̭̗͚̫͙̅̽͒̂̈ͧͫ͆̿ͭ̎̈́̋ͣ̿͋̉͐͢l̛̿ͫ̽̐̈́̄͌ͫͬ͒ͨͪ̉̕̕҉͏̣͔̩̹̩̣̞͎̘̗̲̪͈̞̬͕̭͙ͅy̵̧͙̪͎͎̜͉͉̼̫̖̟͎̙̲͇͇ͣͨͯ̽̒̊̅͋ͬ̓ͪ̍̇̌ͫ ̴̤͔̘̳̥̭͇͉̭͙̩͚͙̗̙͚̎͐͆̓ͪ͊̐̍ͫ̊̋̑̔́ͫ̒ͯ̚c̴̛̓̋̓ͨ͑̈́͊̃ͨ̽̀͏̢̫͍̱̜͓̘̹͕̫̜̭͚̯̖̖͎o̸̰̰̥͓̲̪̰͚̹̹͙̠̯̗͒̓ͬͣ̏̇̅͌ͭͤ̅̅͆̄́́̐ͩ͘͝͞m̶̤͉̩̯͓̲̺̥̙̠̟͉̟̝̠̫͎̱ͦͧ͛͆͂͐̎̈́̋̏͒̓ͦ̄̐͜͞͝ͅp̶̸̖̳͉̟͓͗͆͋̓̾͑̎ͮ̋̔̿̏̏͑̚͠r̢̛̛̥̝̟͖̣̟͈͙ͦ̄̐͌ͣ̉ę̛̺̼͍̱̬̹̦̾̔̀̉̎͐̈̑ͯ̎ͨ͋ͅh̷̸͕̲̞͔͔̝̱̅͛͒̏̅̊̃͌̎͋è̶̛̺͚̟̫̥̩͖̻͖̪̹̼̗̖ͤ̊̒͆̌̒̌ͪ̈̕̕͜ͅn̆̾ͨͥ̂͏̠̥̱̬̙͖̙̯͇̜̣̻̭̘͓͓̠͔ḑ̲͉̱̭̥̳̯̬̭̙̫̲͚ͩ̍ͫ̄̇͊ͯ͂̂̌̅̚͘͢͡ͅͅ

̸̢͇̞̟̫̜̬̪͈̋̏ͭ̾̾̐̋͟Ả̢̛͙͖̱̄̉̍͂͗̍ͣͥͫ̒ͥ͘͢R̢͐̾͛̅͒̉͛̈́ͤ͊ͭ́ͬ̐̀͋̏̒̕҉͔̗͇͚͢I̵͉͍̘͖͔̘̫̓̉ͦ̎̀̎ͭ̅͋̔̾͒ͭ̆̾ͩ͋̏͜͝ͅS̵̶̶̛͖͓̜͙̹͈͓͔͚̣̺̘͕̼̯͐̈́̑ͫ̿̎̂͐ͮͪ͆ͤ̍ͧ̿̌ͩ͋͜E̪̥̘͕̺ͨͭͣͭͯͮ̍̃̉ͤ͊͂ͤ͋ͫ̄̚͜͠

 

He twitches, groaning a little as he opens an eye. He’s sure he heard a woman’s voice, but it had been so broken up that he hadn’t caught a single word. He tries to remember, calling on the exercises of his youth that dealt with memorisation, but it doesn’t help. He remains still, waiting, listening to his surroundings. He’s lying on wooden planks and naked from the waist up. Once he’s sure he’s alone he pushes himself into a sitting position. He’s still in the keep, he would know its stone walls anywhere, sequestered in an antichamber and hidden from sight of the door by a wooden shelf stacked with clay jars. His shirt and robe are gone, his weapons too, even his hidden blade and bracer.

Shaking, reeling, he looks down to see the wound the man who may as well be his father had inflicted upon him. The only thing there is a line of stitches holding closed a shallow, bloodless scratch. Altaïr touches the flesh. “What …”

“Altaïr?”

Altaïr looks up sharply. He’s more than capable of inflicting grievous injury with his bare hands, and killing with them too, but the man, no, the boy who said his name is no enemy. He stares wide-eyed at Altaïr, his lip trembling. He can’t be more than ten years old. As the stare at each other the pieces click into place. He’s clean of blood, undressed. He swings his legs over the side of the table and strides across to the boy, taking him by the collar.

“Who ordered you to prepare burial rites?”

“I—I—”

His head snaps up when he hears hurried footsteps, and bends his neck when Al Mualim enters the small space. No one says anything for a moment; Altaïr’s pulse hammers in his ears. The anger he felt towards Al Mualim before has dissipated, and now uncertainty is licking at him. The Master had _stabbed_ him. He lets the boy go, and the child stumbles back, pressing himself against the wall.

“Master,” Altair starts, “I’m … alive? How? I saw you … I _felt_ —”

“You saw what I wanted you to see,” Al Mualim says.

The Master makes no mention of the matter again. He brings Altaïr to his study and tells him that his title, rank, and everything has been stripped from him, and the only way he will gain it all back is through acts of redemption. Although it chafes terribly, Altaïr will do what needs to be done. And his task is such — kill. Kill nine men, all of them spread across different cities and all from different walks of life. Kill, and be rewarded; kill, and be redeemed.

“Stand.”

Altaïr straightens, and the Master rounds him, inspecting him up and down. “Go,” he says. “You will stay within the walls, and return to me at dawn.”

The keep’s inhabitants stare at Altaïr like he’s a ghost, and whispers follow him like sparks in dry grass. _He’s alive, he’s alive …_

He receives the first name the next day, a black-market merchant of Damascus named Tamir, and so it begins.

* * *

Altaïr doesn’t say it until he speaks to Malik after Majd Addin’s funeral, but he cannot shake the feeling that his teacher lied, and that he was very much meant to die on the day the siege of Masyaf lifted.

He begins to suspect something changed that day when, weeks later, one of Talal’s arrows catches him in the shoulder. By then two of the nine are dead, and Altaïr has settled into the droll rhythm of the tasks. He chews on what his victims say, their words smouldering like embers in the back of his mind and twisting him in ways he despises. The Master had said each was a plague-bringer, a war-maker, corrupt to the bone. Yet Tamir had insisted he served a nobler cause than profiteering from war, Garnier de Naplouse that the people he treated were not being tortured but cured. Altaïr sees, however, the suffering their labours bring, and kills them all the same. He brings back news of each kill to the Master, submissive and not daring to take so much as a single misstep.

Talal had started as another notch to add to his belt, but it had become personal.

Talal hides in Jerusalem, and Altaïr is greeted by a nasty surprise when he arrives at the bureau to find none other than Malik waiting for him. Malik has been made _rafiq_ , and he simmers with frustration. The _rafiqs_ are rarely so young, but there is good reason for Malik to hold such a position. His left arm is little more than a stump, the empty sleeve pinned up neatly. Altaïr Senses Malik before he rounds the corner to the cool confines of the bureau, and takes a moment to gather himself.

Dislike oozes from Malik as Altaïr steps into the shop. He makes no effort to hide his arm, or rather, his lack of one.

Sourness coils within Altaïr’s gut. “Safety and peace, Malik.” It is a quiet offering.

“Your presence here deprives me of both,” Malik snaps. “What do you want?”

 _Blood_ , Altaïr answers.

Altaïr tracks the slaver to Jerusalem’s northern barbican, and the scenes of atrocity he finds within make bile rise in his throat. Altaïr steps into the barbican and Senses the door closing even before it starts to move from its raised position, but he has no interest in leaving. His temple aches in annoyance. If Talal wants to play his games, then Altaïr would play them. Talal stands on a mezzanine in the main room and sends men down to kill him. Altaïr draws his sword. Talal had paled when Altaïr had cut the men down and so had fled. Altaïr gives chase across the rooftops, ignoring the shouts of the people below as he leaps across alleys, hunting. Arrows from the city guard skitter around him. They’re like hornets in his mind’s eye, and he avoids them with ease. Some have the gall to believe Altaïr’s Vision is the true reason he’s favoured by the Master, but they are wrong.

Below him people point and scream, they pray for mercy. Ahead of him, Talal takes a moment of his flight to turn and loose another arrow at him as Altaïr jumps a gap between two roofs. Altaïr can’t twist away, and the impact of the arrowhead in his shoulder is like a punch; the pain comes after. When he lands Altaïr stumbles, shocked. Shock gives way to fury, and he growls and snaps the shaft, too angry to think about the damage it must cause because _nothing_ hits him. He catches and leaps on Talal, and sinks his blade deep beneath the man’s collarbone. He can’t help but feel the twinge of satisfaction for the kill, and wets the marker with a little more passion than is called for.

Malik says nothing of the blood on his robes. Altaïr endures his shouts and clenches his fist when pain spikes down his arm. He wants nothing more than to defend his actions and shout back, but it’s not his place and Altaïr _hates_ it.

“The entire _city_ knows! Have you forgotten the meaning of subtly?” Malik bellows, and Altaïr has had enough. He opens his mouth to retort, but they’re both interrupted when the arrowhead falls from his shoulder and bounces on the rug with a muffled thump. They stare at it, neither of them knowing what to say.

Malik’s the first one to find his tongue. “Is this a joke, Novice?”

Altaïr puts a hand to his shoulder and finds the wound’s … closing. If he were to judge it felt days, perhaps even weeks old. “I don’t know what it is,” he says, terse.

Later in quiet reflection, the need to know what had happened _burns_. His curiosity is demanding and painful. He lays on the straw pallet in the back of the bureau, turning the arrowhead over in his fingers. It should have hurt. It was a nasty piece of iron, barbed and with spots of rust. Why hadn’t it hurt coming out? Altaïr touches his shoulder; the wound’s closed. For the first time that day he feels fear. Such a healing should have been welcome, but he knows something is deeply, deeply wrong. Malik left him bandages, catgut, and wine, but Altaïr doesn’t need it. He knows Malik will call it arrogance but he can’t care. He puts the arrowhead down on the floor and rests his hand on his abdomen. He’s no longer so satisfied with Al Mualim’s cryptic answers to the lack of a wound.

He leaves the bureau before dawn, shivering in the cool air. He leaves Jerusalem and returns to Masyaf, and doesn’t say a word about the arrow to Al Mualim. Afterwards he leaves Masyaf to kill the Merchant King Abu’l Nuqoud, and leaves the courtyard with his marker bloodied and the arrowhead far from his mind. There are other things on it. William de Monfeurat falls beneath him soon after. He too claims that his actions were hardly cruel but necessary for the people, not the king he served, not for his son. Men often claimed good in their dying moments, Altaïr has been killing men begging for mercy for ten years now, but never has each target been connected like this. Altaïr is tormented. And he is learning, growing.

His targets cause doubt within himself not only for the acts of taking their lives, but within his past actions too. For the first time since he was a child he begins to reflect on the Creed, and reexamine his understanding. Nothing is true, and everything is permitted. When he had been posed the question as a boy he had said what he thought the _da’i_ wanted to hear. Now he tastes them on his tongue and turns them over on his mind, digging into them.

The _rafiqs_ are the first to notice his changing heart. They offer their smiles more, and conversations are no longer forced and business-like in their entirety but grow like fertile seeds. Altaïr begins to think not only of himself, but of others in whole. He starts to understand and appreciate what true respect means. Since his father’s death he has wanted and had the respect like that the Master commands, unchanging and unflinching, powerful. As the months go by he finds that mutual respect is a fruit far sweeter, and like sugar he starts to crave it. In the bureaus when he sits with others in the _majlis_ , he talks and laughs and smiles. He is still proud, still aloof, but he is not so rotten, and men reached to that more. It makes him reflect on the Master, and he begins to despise his visits to Masyaf.

 _Make humble your heart_ , Al Mualim had commanded. His heart has become more than humble. It has made him hungry.

When Majd Addin lies cold, Altaïr confronts the Master.

He returns to Masyaf with two goals. The first is to demand answers for these deaths. The second is for answers on his wound. He waits impatiently for the Master outside his study, his fingers itching as he paces the hall. The summons are an age to come, and Altaïr has difficulty not storming to the Master’s desk.

The Master stands behind it, perusing his documents. “I trust you are well rested? Ready for your remaining trials?”

“I am,” Altaïr says, “but I’d speak with you first. I have questions.”

“Ask, then.”

“Each man I’ve slain has said strange words to me,” Altaïr starts, and every word of his own is carefully picked. “They are without regret; even in death they seem confident of their success. Though they do not admit it directly there is a tie that binds them, I am sure of it.”

“There is a difference, Altaïr, between what we are told to be true, and what we _see_ to be true. Most men do not bother to make the distinction. It is simple that way. But as an Assassin, it is your nature to notice, to question.”

“Then what is it that connects these men?”

“Ah, but as an Assassin, it is your duty to still these thoughts and trust in your Master. For there can be no true peace without order, and order requires authority.”

“You speak in circles, Master. You commend me for being aware and then ask me not to be. Which is it?”

“The question will be answered when you no longer need to ask it.”

Altaïr scowls. “Each man I’m sent to kill speaks cryptic words and I have come to you for answers, yet you sit and give me riddles. No more.”

Al Mualim’s face darkens. “Who are you to say ‘no more’?”

“The one who does the killing,” Altaïr retorts. “If you want it to continue you’ll speak straight to me.”

“Tread carefully, Altaïr,” Al Mualim warns. “I do not like your tone.”

“And _I_ do not like your deception.”

“I have offered you a chance to restore your lost honour!”

“Not lost,” Altaïr snarls. “Taken. By you. And then you send me to fetch it again, like some damned dog.”

“It seems I’ll need to find another! Shame! You showed great potential.”

“I think if you had another you’d have sent him long ago,” Altaïr breathes. “I will not ask for my answer. I _demand_ you tell me what binds these men.”

There is such tension the air aches. Altaïr will not back down, and his heart hammers so much it hurts. He can taste Al Mualim’s fury, but he has come too far.

“You are right,” Al Mualim says eventually, flat. “These men are connected by a blood oath not unlike our own. _Non nobis, Domine, non nobis_.”

“Templars?” Altaïr’s mouth is dry. “De Sablé … But each of these men should hate the other. Saracens, French, Christians and Muslims …”

“Now you understand his true reach? These men — leaders of cities, commanders of armies; all pledge allegiance to his cause.”

“The Merchant King of Damascus murdered the nobles who ruled his city,” Altaïr says. “Majd Addin in Jerusalem used fear to force his people into submission. I suspect William meant to murder Richard and hold Acre with his troops. These men were meant to aid their leaders; instead they chose to betray them. And then there is this business between Tamir, Garnier, and Talal, shuffling people and goods from each other’s cities, all of them claiming to aid. What I do not understand is _why_.”

“Is the answer not obvious?”

Altaïr gnashes his teeth, and he thinks for some moments, silent. Then he understands. “Control.”

“Precisely,” Al Mualim says. “Each man wanted to claim their cities in the Templar name that the Templars themselves might rule the Holy Land and eventually beyond. But they cannot succeed. Their plans depend on the Templar treasure.” Al Mualim holds the sphere in hand. “This — the Piece of Eden.”

“What’s so special about this treasure?”

“It is _temptation_ ,” the Master says with utmost seriousness. His fingers play over the sphere’s surface, tracing its strange grooves. “Look.”

Altaïr doesn’t know what the Master finds so fascinating about it. He talks of Templars and the strings they command, yet wants him to look at a bauble? Altaïr looks. His head still swims. “It’s just a piece of silver.”

The Master breathes out through his nose. “This ‘piece of silver’ cast out Adam and Eve. This is the _Apple_. He who holds it commands the hearts and minds of whoever looks upon it; whoever ‘tastes’ of it.”

And such sense it makes. Even if this Apple is just a bauble, men put power into things; these very Crusades were build upon the perception of power. All of this death and deceit over another useless holy relic. Altaïr says, “Then it must be destroyed.”

“Which is what I’ve had you doing.”

“Why hide the truth from me?”

“That you might pierce the veil yourself. Like any task, knowledge precedes action. Information learnt is more valuable than information given.” Al Mualim adds after a moment, “And your recent behaviour has not inspired in me much confidence.” Altaïr feels a hint of shame. “Now Altaïr, before you go.”

“Yes?”

“How did you know I wouldn’t kill you?”

“Truth be told, Master,” Altaïr says, “I didn’t. I took a leap of faith.”

But there is something else that bothers Altaïr as he walks away from the Master’s study. Whatever people have and do say about him, no one has ever believed him to be a fool. A fool in action, perhaps, but never not clever or cunning. _Look_ , Al Mualim had commanded him, but the Master has never put much thought into the holy power of relics. When he had said that Altaïr had no desire to share news of Talal’s arrow. Whatever the Master is doing, he is plotting something other, and Altaïr will hold his silence until he knows more.

In the end, he can trust no one but Malik. The scholar Jubair al-Hakim and the Teutonic Knight Sibrand fall beneath his blade, and so the path is opened for de Sablé’s death. Whispers come that he is planning to attend the funeral of Majd Addin, and Altaïr travels to Jerusalem. Malik sends him forth to do the deed, but the funeral is a trap. It was never de Sablé in Jerusalem, but his double. A woman. Altaïr is shocked and horrified upon the discovery, and when he goes to strike her the woman leers at him, taunts him. Altaïr releases her. “You were not my target,” he says. Short months ago he would have killed her regardless. From her he learns that de Sablé is at Arsuf to the northwest where Richard and Salah ad-Din’s forces gather for battle, and that de Sablé plans to offer a temporary truce. It’s not only Crusaders that Altaïr has cut down, but Muslims. Altaïr’s actions have made the Assassins a common enemy to Richard and Salah ad-Din, and if nothing is done, they would march on Masyaf, together. Altaïr has no time to return to Masyaf. The day’s events and his worries about the Master are what prompt him to talk to Malik.

“Talal,” is what he says.

“What of him?” Malik’s softened towards Altaïr over the weeks, and it is concern, not scorn, that laces his voice.

Altaïr has carried the arrowhead around with him since Talal’s death; he places it on the bench. “He shot me.”

“I know —”

“And I healed. That _night_ I healed.” He tugs down the collar of his robe to reveal the skin beneath. “There’s nothing to show. I believed the Master when he said the knife was nothing but trickery. I no longer do. He … I Sense foul things within him. He is hiding too much.” He rolls back his sleeve and releases his hidden blade.

“What are you doing?” Malik hisses.

Altaïr winces as he cuts his forearm, and the two of them watch with baited breath. At first nothing happens, but then the edges of the cut begin to _glow_. It’s a faint glow, gold in colour, and the wound starts to heal before their eyes. Malik sucks in a breath. “Altaïr, that’s the same as the Master’s artefact. Could it have somehow … _affected_ you?”

“Perhaps,” Altaïr says, but doesn’t voice the obvious hole in the thinking — Malik has not healed. He thinks back to Solomon’s Temple, and whichever way he turns it, Malik has always been in more proximity to the artefact than he ever has. Altaïr’s never touched it for one, and Malik had not only escaped from the temple with it, but carried it, alone, the two weeks it takes to travel from Jerusalem to Masyaf. No, this has to be something else.

“I’m going back to Solomon’s Temple,” Altaïr decides. A muscle in Malik’s jaw twitches. “I may be able to find some clues there.” Altaïr doesn’t believe in the divine, he never has, and he reasons the best way to start to comprehend what’s happened is to strike out everything else. He thinks it would be foolish not to go to there.

“When?” Malik asks after a moment.

Altaïr absently runs the edge of his thumbnail over the pad of a finger. “Tonight,” he decides. “And tomorrow I must ride for Arsuf.”

* * *

Solomon’s Temple is hidden beneath Jerusalem’s old city. It’s only accessible through either the old Templar stronghold at Haram al-Sharif, what they called Temple Mount, or through the twisting labyrinth of Zedekiah’s Cave, Jerusalem’s oldest quarry site; some even call it Solomon’s quarry, unaware of the truth that lies deeper within. It’s easy enough to sneak past the two guards standing at the entrance of the caves, two of Salah ad-Din’s men who stare sleepily into the torches illuminating the night. Altaïr makes his way into the belly of the earth. He doesn’t need a torch, the Vision is enough. It’s not like seeing, it’s just knowing where things lie, like knowing that the floor suddenly drops a foot down, or that the smoothed down areas of stone from the quarry days suddenly gives way to natural rock for a few dozen paces. Altaïr’s eyes are blind, but his Vision is alight. He keeps travelling, down and down, navigating the difficult terrain without pause.

He knows he’s getting close when he’s greeted by the first walls of the Templars’ defensive _chicane_ structure. They’d almost gotten turned around by the walls when they’d first come through. The _chicane_ is designed to slow attackers down, stretching a large force out into single- or double-file by making people stretch out into a snaking chain blocked by walls. An effective _chicane_ like this will make a man walk from one side of a passage to the other. It also funnels Altaïr into a single chamber which leaves him facing seven different passageways, only one of which will lead him into the correct direction. Altaïr goes down the second-most left one, and he drops down into a hole, landing in a crouch. He doesn’t have to go much further before he finds the place where he killed the innocent man Malik and later Al Mualim rebuked him for.

Altaïr swallows at the memory, troubled by it unlike before. He goes to the wall and touches the dead torch in its bracket. His fingers come away dry; there hasn’t been oil in the basket for months. He takes the torch off the wall and replaces the tinder and oil, then strikes a spark into it. He can navigate with the Vision perfectly well, but he’s still just a man, and when he has a choice of preference, he will do so. Light spills into the dark, and Altaïr sets forward, jumping the treacherous pits. The air is still, heavy with rock and damp, but the closer he gets to the ruins of the temple, the more the air opens up. Altaïr draw deeper breaths, and it’s all too soon that he stands above the space where the Ark of the Covenant had been. It’s gone now like the artefact, no doubt sealed away by the Templars.

Old blood stains the floor; Altaïr wonders if it’s Malik’s blood, or even Kadar’s. He doesn’t know what happened to the boy’s body. Altaïr pushes the terrible thought away and climbs up the carved edifice to where the Ark had sat, and passes his fingers over the plinth it had occupied. There is nothing there that gives him any clues, through neither touch nor Vision. Altaïr’s lip twitches in annoyance, and he drops back to the ground, searching for anything that could point him in a direction. But there is nothing special in the chamber, and all it holds is dust and memories.

He must seek answers elsewhere, and as it happens, the man who knows them is the man he must now kill. De Sablé knows what this chamber is and what it held better than he. He pushes his horse hard through the next day and the night, and by the time he arrives at the port town of Jaffa and smells the smokes of war, the day has dawned again and the animal is near-death. As soon as Altaïr dismounts the horse’s legs fold and it lies heaving in the dust. Altaïr only has the time to murmur his thanks in its ear before he must go. Arsuf is two hours walk to the north of Jaffa, and Altaïr steals a cloak from a washing line, shrouding himself in it before starting off at a brisk pace. To his left is the sea, to his right dense woods. Dead litter the path — horses, men, livestock. Most of the men are light infantry struck with arrows, the bodies several days old and most likely the victims of light skirmishes sent out by Salah ad-Din’s forces. Altaïr follows the trail of dead, and after just over an hour, finds Richard’s Crusader encampment. De Sablé is there.

He had thought it would be difficult to enter the Crusader camp at all, but the sentries watch for a host of men, not a single man. There is space to hide. Altaïr uses the scrub and smoke to come up on the rear, and when he crests a ridge he sees the battle in the far distance. Crusaders and Saracens knot together, screaming, cursing, killing. For a moment Altaïr despairs in ever finding de Sablé even with the Vision, but he must push onwards. He has a task to complete, and not for Al Mualim’s sake. Closer to him than the battle is the camp, and it is in chaos. He learns that Salah ad-Din’s forces had surrounded Richard’s and assaulted them with a barrage of constant charges and archery as well as inflicting heavy losses upon the Crusaders, charging their heavy cavalry into the rear of the lines. The Crusaders had managed to make their way then to Arsuf to set camp, and that Richard himself plans to lead the counterattack. Altaïr follows the directions he overhears and soon finds Richard in the heart of the camp. The English king is a huge man, taller than Altaïr and his hair and beard a fiery red, armoured and shouting for his horse. _Lionheart_ , the people call him. Altaïr stops a stone’s throw from him.

One of the guard sees him. His shouts bring down a host upon Altaïr’s head, and Altaïr drops to his knees, surrendering his sword at once. The twenty men called down upon him halt, the archers with their arrows trained on his back hold their bowstrings taut.

King Richard knows about the commotion. “Assassin,” he hisses.

“It’s words I bring,” Altaïr says, “not steel.”

“What is the meaning of this? And be quick with it.”

“You have a traitor within your midst, who plans to usurp your crown and armies for his own unholy cause. That man is Robert de Sablé.”

The king is outraged, but Altaïr’s conviction all but doubles when de Sablé himself swaggers onto the scene. His eyes glitter in recognition.

“These accusations are, of course, false, my king,” de Sablé purrs. “It is an Assassin that stands before us. These creatures are masters of manipulation. I know this one. The little novices I’ve questioned call him the Eagle of Masyaf, the Old Man of the Mountain’s favourite heretic. They say that a hundred men cannot best him in battle. I have proven that to be as false as their God.”

“I’ve no reason to deceive,” Altaïr replies evenly.

“Of course you do,” de Sablé says. “You’re afraid what will happen to your little fortress.”

“My concern isn’t for Salah ad-Din, or you; it’s for what your actions will bring upon the people of the Holy Land.”

Richard laughs, curling a finger in his beard as he looks between Altaïr and de Sablé. “A strange place we find ourselves in. Each of you accusing the other …”

“Surely you cannot believe him?” de Sablé protests.

“Believe? No. But his words and the sheer daring to walk into my camp and address me like this … brings me doubt. If he is so skilled as you claim, then he should have no trouble killing me where I stand. Yet I live and breathe as does every man here, and he has not moved. And so, I doubt. I will not leave this decision upon me. Let this be decided by combat. Surely God will side with the one whose cause is righteous.”

De Sablé can barely contain his tongue, but the king is not yet finished.

“He claims you a traitor,” Richard says, “and so you will fight. Yet you claim he can hold his own against a hundred, and so I will grant you in return twenty men to cut him down.”

Altaïr has never faced twenty men at once. He most he has done is six, and each of them armed with blunted steel. Precious months ago he would have welcomed the challenge, but he is a changed man. Precious months ago, he would have boasted this a waste of time for he would know before so much as unsheathing his sword that he would win. _You cannot know_ , Malik had said to him before he had struck down Majd Addin, _you can only suspect._ Those few precious months ago, he would have spat on Malik’s words and called them foolish.

Altaïr draws his sword and discards the scabbard to the ground as a ring is cleared for the fight. De Sablé strides amongst his knights, picking his twenty men. Altaïr calms himself as he waits, stretching his muscles and the Vision both. The Vision was always something smouldering like an ember in the back of his mind, never dull but waiting for sudden movement. In the middle of a mission it would be tense as a coiling serpent, and it is now. His nerves thrum with life as the knights fan around him, swords pointed at his chest.

“So!” de Sablé calls. “We face each other once more. Let us hope you prove more of a challenge this time!”

“I’m not the man you faced inside the temple,” Altaïr says.

“You look the same to me.”

“Appearances can deceive.”

The first knight strikes at him, and as soon as Altaïr moves to deflect the sword, the others raise their weapons against him. Altaïr has never felt like this, so alive and giddy yet so vulnerable. His Vision is on fire, and he fends an impossible number of swords again and again, dancing backwards out of reach and panting for breath. Seven come for him, the others resting and waiting, including de Sablé. Only fools would tire themselves out when they so significantly hold the numerical advantage. Altaïr grits his teeth and adjusts his grip on his sword. A knight comes for him, screaming, and Altaïr side-steps and wraps his hand around the man’s shoulder, Sensing a tear in the chainmail hauberk beneath. His blade snaps out, sinking through the padding beneath and deep into the man’s flesh. He screams and drops. One down. Altaïr retracts the blade and parries the next sword.

Within minutes five have been cut down, and Altaïr tremors with exhaustion. He parries strikes without thinking, slips past the guard of one man and fells him. He Senses one of the other knights flinch and strikes at him, taking him in the middle of his fear and terror with a blade at the throat. The dirt soon becomes bloody mud, and Altaïr has killed four, eight, twelve. He is untouched, but he aches and hurts. Richard watches with a fascination, and de Sablé’s temper is at its end. He strikes for Altaïr himself, and Altaïr catches his sword with the short blade, pushing him away and kicking him in the stomach. He whirls, driving the narrow point of the short blade up and under the armpit of another man, and pulls it free with a spray of gore. His muscles burn, and he must drop the short blade and take up his sword once more as de Sablé comes at him again, their steel ringing as they clash. They exchanges blows up and down the field, de Sablé howling like an animal, and a snarl curling Altaïr’s lip.

De Sablé catches Altaïr’s sword on his own and leans close; Altaïr smells his foul breath. “I know what you are,” he pants. “We used to call your kind Tainted. You were supposed to be extinct.”

Altaïr stabs de Sablé with the hidden blade. It pierces the knight’s forearm and de Sablé’s great strength fails for just long enough for Altaïr to pull back and away and drive his sword deep into de Sablé’s chest. The man gapes, his eyes so wide they’re all-white around, and Altaïr takes his mind in an iron grip. De Sablé struggles feebly against it, but the fog engulfs them all the same, and the knights around them slow as if caught in honey, then stop. They vanish into the blue, and Altaïr and de Sablé are alone.

“It is done, then,” Altaïr says, cradling de Sablé. “Your schemes, like you, are put to rest.”

“You know nothing of schemes,” de Sablé tells him, his teeth red with blood. “You’re but a puppet. He betrayed you, boy, just as he betrayed me.” There’s little doubt as to who he means. Altaïr knows it in his heart who he speaks of and that the words are true. He cannot defend himself. “Nine men he sent you to kill, yes?” de Sablé continues. “The nine who guarded the treasure’s secret. It wasn’t nine who found the treasure, Assassin. Not nine, but ten. And I doubt very much you’d take his life as willingly as you’ve taken mine.”

“But he’s not a Templar,” Altaïr insists. “He’s the Master of the Assassins!”

“Master of the Assassins … Master of Lies.” De Sablé wheezes a chuckle. “Did you never wonder how he knew so much? You and I, just two more pawns in his grand game. He’ll never let you live, knowing what you do.” De Sablé asks, “Ironic, isn't it? That I, your greatest enemy, kept you safe from harm? But now you've taken my life and in the process, ended your own.”

De Sablé dies, and his knights come for Altaïr, screaming.

“ _Enough!_ ” Richard’s arms are upthrown, and the knights falter in their tracks. Richard strides through them, shoving them aside and stopping a hairsbreadth from where Altaïr is crouched over de Sablé’s body. His ears ring, and he looks up at the English King. “I’ve never seen swordplay like that,” Richard says. “A hundred men you could cut down without a scratch. No, I’d wager the number would be higher. A thousand men, perhaps. Maybe even ten thousand.”

“I’m but a man,” Altaïr says. “No man can do that.”

“Hmph. Battles and their histories are one of my greatest joys. You know of the Roman conquests in Germania? There’s an old story of a warrior from a thousand years ago who slew a thousand Romans by himself, and I never thought it something real until I saw this. Well fought, Assassin. God favours your cause this day.”

“No God favours me. I’m but —”

“A man, a man. Bah! Even if you do not believe in Him, it seems He believes in you.”

“If you say.”

“Pray that God grants me the same fighting prowess against that heretic Saladin this day.” Altaïr steps away from de Sablé’s body and collects his short knife, sheathing it on his back and his sword on his hip. The knights stand with their naked steel, itching for Altaïr’s death. He looks each one in the eyes.

“Tell me,” Richard says, “why travel all this way, risk you life a thousand times, all to kill one man?”

“He threatened my brothers and what we stand for,” Altaïr replies.

“Vengeance, then?”

“No. Not vengeance. Justice. That there might be peace.”

“You fight for peace … You see the contradiction? You amongst all here have a unique talent for violence.” Richard sighs. “We come into the world kicking and screaming; violent and unstable. It is what we are. We cannot help ourselves.”

“No,” Altaïr replies. “We are what we choose to be.”

“If that’s so you’ve chosen your path. And whatever Robert was — traitor, war hero — he was my friend of many years. But God’s guiding blade has agreed he was a traitor. If what you say is true, then you have saved my life. I will give you a horse to speed your departure. And know if I ever see you again, Assassin, I’ll cut you down myself.”

“You won’t see me,” Altaïr says. “I cannot make that promise for my brothers.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

Altaïr nods. “Safety and peace.”

Richard looks to de Sablé and chortles, pained. “Peace….”

As Altaïr waits for the horse he meditates on de Sablé’s words. His accusations about the Master offer too many explanations to Altaïr’s questions, and as he had done whilst holding de Sablé, Altaïr again finds that place in his heart that had known the truth he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. The Master was the closest thing to a father he had since Umar’s death. But he is under no illusions that the Master had felt anything familial towards him in return. His love was as cold and distant as a star, concerned with what his students could give him. Altaïr had given him great things — deaths, treasures, even his name.

 _I need evidence_ , Altaïr thinks as he accepts the gifted horse from one of the Crusader stablehands. _Let me be wrong, for the Brotherhood’s sake._

He pushes the horse as hard as he dares back to Masyaf; it’s a two-week ride. The closer he draws the more troubled he becomes. By the time he comes to the village’s gate he can feel the wrongness in the air. There is a single sentry stationed on the gate-walk, but he doesn’t react even when Altaïr shoves the gates open himself. Altaïr goes to him, cautious. “Brother?”

The man’s eyes are distant, and his mouth hangs open, forgotten. “The light … so …”

“Where is everyone?” Altaïr demands.

“Gone … to see … the Master.”

“And this light, what are you talking about? Does it belong to the treasure?”

“Gone to see the Master …”

Altaïr stares at the man, helpless, and takes his weapons. The man hardly seems to notice. “Stay here, do not move,” Altaïr tells him, storing his weapons in a locked chest in the guardhouse. He pockets the key and moves up the hill towards the fortress.

The village is abandoned, and Altaïr searches with the Vision for any sign of life. He struggles with it, and he realises with a sickening horror he’s felt this before, on the day he rushed for de Sablé in Solomon’s Temple. Altaïr draws his sword before he takes another step. Somewhere baskets fall; Altaïr hears them bounce against the road. He turns the corner of the last house of the village and sees the waiting Assassins. Each man has the same vacant gaze as the sentry, and they draw their swords in harmony, every move mirrored amongst them. Altaïr counts twelve. “What’s happened here?”

“Altaïr,” they say in one voice. “You have killed Robert? The Master awaits you with your title and honour to return.”

“Where is the treasure? _Where is the Apple?_ ”

“There is only what the Master shows us. This is the truth. You will walk the path or you will perish. So the Master commands.”

“What has he done to you?” Altaïr asks, aghast.

“Led us to the light.”

“ ‘Led’; he’s enslaved you.” Altaïr’s head is thick and aching, and he slurs words and says, “We are better than this! We rebelled against Them to _end this_!”

The Assassins leap to attack, but the first stops dead in his tracks, crying out in pain. A crossbow bolt is embedded in his calf. Altaïr sees Malik cresting the rise behind the enthralled Assassins, and behind him his men from Jerusalem shoot at their brothers with crossbows. Altaïr sees one bolt take a man in the throat.

“No!” Altaïr bellows. “Don’t kill them!”

The bolts continue to fly, but no others are fatal. When the last of the Assassins have crumpled, Altaïr runs to Malik. “Malik! I … I’m glad you’re … you.”

“Likewise.”

“Al Mualim has betrayed us.”

Malik’s mouth twists. “I know. I returned to Solomon’s Temple too, and I found Robert’s journal beneath the rubble. What I read there broke my heart. Our Master has been using us. We were never meant to save the Holy Land but deliver it to him.”

“We were all played for fools, and it’s up to us to fix this. You brought Rashid the key and I the one who lifted the lockpins from place.”

Malik nods. “Yes.”

Altaïr steps to the lip of the ridge and gestures down at the Assassins; Malik’s men are restraining them. “This isn’t right.”

“And what gave that away?” Malik asks sarcastically, but it’s not what Altaïr means. Whatever this was, it was incomplete, and a bastardisation of what was supposed to happen. He doesn’t being to understand it himself, but it’s what his instincts tell him. This mindlessness is only part of a true horror.

“How well can you climb?” Altaïr asks him.

“Not fast, but I can manage so long as it’s not too challenging,” Malik replies. “What do you have planned?”

“Rashid is in the fortress,” Altaïr says, “and I fear for what he wants. If he doesn’t know you’re here then we have the advantage. Go around the back, climb up to the garden.”

“You talk as if we’re splitting our forces. So you’ll do what? Walk through the gate?”

“If we’re to succeed, yes.”

“No,” Malik says firmly. “If we lose you to this nightmare, we will never defeat you. Not with your Gift.”

“Then kill the Master before he can take me,” Altaïr says. “Put a dozen bolts between his shoulders. Now go.”

“Put your blade in his throat, Altaïr,” Malik says.

Altaïr nods. “Safety and peace.”

Malik inclines his head in return. “Your presence here will deliver us of both.”

For the first time in days Altaïr smiles. “Distract these thralls,” he says of the Assassins, starting backwards up the slope, “but do not kill them; their minds are not their own.” He runs the rest of the way, pausing only when he reaches the gatehouse. More Assassins await him, but they do nothing but stare. They move aside to let him pass, and beyond them in the courtyard stands every soul in Masyaf’s keep, staring at him unblinkingly. The great door to the keep stands wide. Behind him both portcullises crash down, echoing through the stillness.

Altaïr pads through the crowd, his breathing loud in his ears, and his grip on his sword hilt so tight his fingers ache. He strains to find Rashid with his Vision, but he can Sense nothing. It’s like trying to look through soup. The hall is empty, books and straw and silk hangings blowing across the flagstones. Altaïr’s steps are silent. His blade is ready. He peers at every shadow and corner of this place he knows so well, but all is gone. The only place Altaïr sees to go is to the garden.

Altaïr walks through the gate, and even the constant chatter of birds and insects are gone. The sky is grey and the only sound is the gurgle of the fountain. Altaïr stays close to the fortress wall, every nerve strung tight. The air tastes like what comes before a summer thunderstorm, humid and static.

The gate screeches on its hinges, and Altaïr spins on his toe, then screams as pain takes him, wracking every fibre of his being. His sword falls from his nerveless fingers as he’s dragged by invisible hands to the centre of the garden, and his head forced up to the balcony above. Al Mualim stands upon it, the Piece of Eden in his palm glowing, pulsing like flames. Altaïr’s toes leave the ground as he’s lifted high.

“So,” Al Mualim says, “the student returns.”

Altaïr bares his teeth. “I’ve never been one to run.”

“Never been one to listen, either.”

“And I still live because of it.” Pain squeezes him, and Altaïr exclaims through his teeth.

“And look!” Al Mualim declares. “The Eagle’s wings have been clipped! Now what will I do with you?”

“Let me go.”

“Oh, Altaïr,” Al Muailm says, “the hate in your voice. ‘Let you go’? That would be unwise.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why …? Many reasons. I believed, once, in a God who loved and looked after us, who sent prophets to guide and comfort. Who made miracles to remind us of His power. But then I pierced the veil, child, I understood the words they tell you from when you can crawl. ‘Nothing is true, and everything is permitted’. Power is lies resting on a shifting bed of sand, and without power comes anarchy, and so the world runs. All of it, an _illusion_. I grew so tired of fighting this sand that pulled me under no matter what I did, and then I found a way to still the sand.”

Altaïr falls, and Al Mualim hisses. The Piece of Eden flares, and shadows of light jump at Altaïr. Each devolves into a man, their eyes glowing like suns and the killing wounds Altaïr had pierced the nine of them with bleeding stars. Altaïr rolls away and leaps to his feet, diving over a kick and lunging for his sword. He snatches it up, uses the nearby wall to run and flip over the sharp steel of the nine’s swords. And as he lands he can’t Sense them, he can’t Sense anything. His Vision is blind and useless within the overpowering presence of the Apple, and so Altaïr must fight with skill and skill alone. He may as well be fighting with a hand tied behind his back, or blindfolded or deaf. He slashes the scholar Jubair deep across the chest, and his sword jerks at the impact. Jubair disappears into sunlight.

“You lied to me!” Altaïr roars. “You called Robert’s goal foul when all along it was yours as well.” He grunts as one of the illusions cuts him across the shoulder. His heart hammers; he hasn’t felt fear like this since the day Abbas had beaten and scarred him in the ring as a child. He feels helpless, and Al Mualim knows it. Altaïr swings around and cuts Tamir’s throat with the short knife; the man dissolves. Abu’l Nuqoud, William de Monferrat, Garnier de Naplouse, Talal, Sibrand, Majd Addin, Robert de Sablé, each of them fall beneath him again, and Altaïr straightens, cut and bloodied. He pants.

“Enough of your tricks, _my Master_. You’ve always had others do your foul deeds for you. Has age sapped you of skill? Greed and corruption blunted your weapons?”

“I have stood against a thousand men, all of them superior to you! And all of them dead by my hand!”

“No, we both know that isn’t true,” Altaïr says. “I am greater than them; you determined that the day you threw that pebble at my head. Why aren’t I like the others? Why do I still have my mind?”

“Who you are and what you do are entwined too tightly together. To rob you of one would have deprived me of the other. But,” Al Mualim says, “I did try, that day you came to me with your questions. You are not like the others; you saw through the illusion. That’s all anything’s ever been — illusion. The Red Sea was never parted. Water never turned to wine. It was not the machinations of Eris that spawned the Trojan War … Illusions, all of them. Saracen, Crusader, Assassin, they all live among an illusion already; I am simply giving them another phantom to follow. As for you … you will not follow me, and I cannot compel you.”

Altaïr says, “You’re afraid of me.”

“What could I be afraid of?” Al Mualim demands. “Look at the power I wield! And look at you. You do bleed.”

Al Mualim disappears in a shift of movement, and Altaïr flings up his sword to block the crashing blow Al Mualim delivers. Altaïr shoves him back and strikes. The Master’s swordplay is shaped by years of practice, and Altaïr has lost his natural advantage. Altaïr hassles Al Mualim, weakening him as best he can, but the Piece of Eden must be lending the old man strength, for no matter what he does Altaïr cannot weaken him. Al Mualim cuts his upper arm, cuts the other. Altaïr cuts him in turn, but Al Mualim hardly seems to notice.

“Enough!” the Master bellows, and Altaïr is tossed through the air. He lands hard on the flagstones, wet with fountain water and gaping with aches that then make themselves known to him. He struggles up and is faced with nine Al Mualims. He strikes at the first, misses. He takes another in the throat and watches him vanish. Altaïr grasps for his Vision again, and Sense enough to block the blow coming down upon his back. Each illusion fights with the same ferocity as the man they imitate, and Altaïr cannot win. Not like this. He strikes down two more, and turns.

Al Mualim’s sword runs him through.

Altaïr jerks against the pain. He tastes blood, and grasps at Al Mualim’s shoulder as he sinks to his knees. The others fade away like desert mirages.

“So your great Vision is fallible,” Al Mualim says. His tone isn’t triumphant, but a blessed observation. Altaïr’s failed, again, and this time he _will_ die. Then of all things the arrowhead comes to his mind, and he makes a rapid jump in logic that if he were in his right mind, he’d not have dared put into action. Against every survival instinct Altaïr drags himself along the sword. Al Mualim releases the handle to leave him only with the hidden blade to defend himself. It’s not enough to stop Altaïr, already blinded by his pain and its madness.

Altaïr leaps forward, hits aside Al Mualim’s strike with the blade, and seizes him by the throat. He follows Al Mualim to the ground, spitting blood from between his teeth and pinning the old man with his knees. He plunges his hidden blade into Rashid ad-Din Sinan’s chest. He takes the Master into the space of their heartbeats, and tries to hide how he shakes.

“You would sacrifice yourself to take my life?” Al Mualim rages like a trapped djinn in a bottle. “You, Altaïr?”

“I’ve changed,” Altaïr rasps around the pain, blood and spittle dripping from his lips. “I was your soldier blindly following orders. I found my freedom through your command to humble my heart.” He spits, “You bragged to Robert that your men would die at your whim. I’ll not give my life for your whim, but I will sacrifice myself for you. For you, I have gone to God.”

“Both of us, dead. The fire destroyed us both.”

“You should have destroyed it,” Altaïr whispers, pained.

“No. It is the only thing capable of stopping these Crusades.”

“Then I will destroy it.”

“You never will. Feel peace, Altaïr. There is nothing where we are going. Other men must reap the consequences.”

“I won’t die,” Altaïr tells the Master, “because I can’t.”

He comes back to himself. The night air is cool against his skin, and cicadas chirrup in the shrubs. Al Mualim’s body lies on the flagstones, the Apple a hand’s width from his fingers. Altaïr sways where he stands. He grasps the sword by the handle and pulls it in one motion from his chest; he doesn’t hear the clatter as it bounces on the stone. Altaïr drops to the ground, shivering, retching. He crawls through his blood to claim the Apple, and cradles it beneath his body as his awareness slips and fades.

He wakes to Malik shaking him. “Altaïr!”

Altaïr puts his hand to his wound. He finds it without trouble. Though it’s no longer life-threatening, the wound is still deep, and his other cuts are gone. His head is fuzzy, and he fails to fight down the sick that rises from his stomach. Mailk leaps back just in time to avoid the splatter. “Look at me.”

Altaïr tries to focus on Malik, but he can’t. He tries to use the Vision, but it’s as if a spike’s been driven behind his eyes.

“Here!” Malik calls.

Altaïr grabs him by the wrist and snarls, “Keep them away. If they know —” Malik’s eyes dart to the wound. “They can’t know,” Altaïr tells him. “No one must know.”

“You need pain relief,” Malik says. “One of the novices can get you opium from the storerooms. You can’t hide it, I can see it written plain across your face.”

Altaïr forces himself to his feet. He wants to yell with the pain of it, but he’s long used to fighting back any kind of cry. He stands unaided, breathing heavily through his teeth. He greets the the Jerusalem Assassins that find them in the garden without a hint of the pain that wracks him. Al Mualim’s blood hides any of Altaïr’s own. Many of the Assassins don’t have eyes for Altaïr. They cry out when they see Al Mualim’s body, and although they know what the Master had done to Masyaf, Altaïr stills feels their blame on him. Once, before his fall from grace, he had commanded their respect, not their love.

Altaïr asks Malik, “The others … the ones under Al Mualim’s spell …”

“Safe, and themselves again. There’s been many wounds torn open today.” Malik’s eyes shift around. “They’re still in the courtyard. Many of them lie where they fell, and we’re doing what we can. Most I can see will make a full physical recovery within the day.”

“Good. The Master … guard the body. Do not take your eyes off it. Please, you must not look away.” Altaïr’s feet will slide out from beneath him in a moment, and Malik takes him under the arm.

“Move!” Malik takes Altaïr to his tower cell, and stays until the requested opium arrives.

“Don’t lose sight … of the body,” Altaïr repeats. “And prepare a pyre.”

Altaïr spends the next few hours resting with the door barred, and when he wakes from the opium’s delirium there’s only a shallow cut to show where Al Mualim’s sword had lodged itself. He twists his head to the side, and on the bedside table is the Apple. He swallows when he hears its whispered promises, and the answer of what has afflicted him it holds. Altaïr wrenches himself away and turns over. He’s seen what that thing does to the minds of men. He mind burns with too many questions, and if anything it makes the Apple’s yearning for his touch stronger. Altaïr twists around cat-quick and seizes it.

“You will not enthral me,” he promises it vehemently. “Wretched thing.”

His Vision is restored too. The Apple grasps for him, but it does nothing to the Vision now. Altaïr wonders why, and it’s yet another of many questions. He cannot pry the answers now. He is healthy enough, and Al Mualim must be dealt with.

* * *

Altaïr takes Al Mualim’s chambers. His teeth itch as he paces up and down the fine rugs, and he finds no rest in the large bed. He has been named Master by the remaining Assassins, but it feels tentative. The first problems had arisen when the news of Al Mualim’s death broke, and Altaïr had burnt the body. Such a thing was sacrilege, but Altaïr must be certain Rashid was dead. Abbas was the loudest of his critics. He accuses Altaïr of coveting power, accuses him of cold-blooded murder. He refuses to see Altaïr’s growth and fixates on his faults. His ideas have garnered ground within some hearts. Meanwhile Altaïr is taking charge of reducing the damage caused by this turn of events. He calls on Malik for aid and spends hours writing to the bureaus across the Holy Land to explain the bones of what had happened. That Al Mualim’s corruption had driven him to madness, and that Altaïr had had no choice but to kill him. He must listen to the villagers’ petitions as well as the Assassins’, organise Al Mualim’s books. He must seize control of the dropped reins.

Every day, the Apple beckons.

“I think he tried to kill you that day to keep this evil thing for himself,” Malik says bitterly. A week has passed since Al Mualim’s death, and both him and Altaïr are exhausted and heartsick. “I never laid my eyes upon it, but I remember how you were in Solomon’s Temple; that same strangeness overcame you in his study.”

“What strangeness?” Altaïr asks.

“Exactly, there was none. All of us to a man could not keep our eyes away from it … except you. Even without anyone reaching for whatever that thing holds inside, it calls for you like a fascination, but for you —”

“It was nothing but a piece of silver.” Altaïr shakes his head. “I know that power you speak of, I feel it when I hold it,” he says lowly. “It calls for me as well, but not how you describe. I’m drawn because it’s like I know it. Like a tool to fit my hand.” Altaïr shakes his head. “Rashid used it as a blunt object, but there’s a thing inside my heart that knows I can play it like the sweetest of string instruments.”

“I don’t like this,” Malik says. “You’re not speaking sense.”

And Altaïr dislikes it just as much. He grasps the Apple and lifts it to eye level, staring at it intently. _What are you?_

“The Brotherhood has had contact with artefacts like this one before,” Malik says.

“What?” Altaïr turns to him. “When? How do you know this?”

“You think I would sit idly after everything that’s happened?” Malik hands Altaïr a scrap of paper which contain references to the annals held in the library. “Have a look for yourself.”

Altaïr nods in thanks, and when the keep is quiet that night he goes to the library, a guard accompanying him. “Be sure no one enters,” Altaïr tells him.

He has spent many days in this library for his lessons. It’s dark now, and Altaïr holds his lantern aloft as he ventures deep into the stacks. The old annals are kept away from the door, as the only people who needed them were the scholars. Altaïr has been into the small dusty room where they are held only a handful of times. The more recent records have been inscribed on fat rolls of parchment and stored carefully as scrolls on shelves going back by year; each is easily as heavy as Altaïr’s arm. The further back they go, the more fractured the records become. Many of them from previous centuries have been written on clay tablets, though many years still are missing from this collection, the rest held instead at the great library of Alamut in the east. Altaïr checks Malik’s dates again. He finds the first heavy scroll and pulls it from place. It’s a transcription of the original work by a scholar from some hundred years ago, but the words date back another thousand and a half. Altaïr tucks the scroll under his arm and brings out four more from around the room, all from different places. The last time he did this it was to search for those references of Vision Labib had talked of long ago. He shifts each and retreats to one of the many tables in the library, placing his lantern down at a corner and unrolling the first scroll across the tabletop.

This too is a transcription, and Altaïr runs his finger across the parchment until he finds the passage Malik had referenced.

 

_They brought the holy shroud of Jesu to the monastery this past morning on its way to Rome. I have never seen any earthly thing like it. Such light that dances in it! God found my mortal soul worthy and allowed me to be close. The cloth is smoother than silk, and my fingers leave trailing white marks on its surface. Blessed be this holy shroud. Bishop Anthony prayed upon it through the night, and the sickly cough that has plagued him since I was a boy here was silenced._

 

_From the books of the Lion of the Order:_

_Siwa is lost. But I have the Orb, and it holds the power of the gods. Men bow at my whim; I must only want it. They walk into fire for me, their flesh sloughing from their bones and will not make a sound. They’re all the same; I’ve tried it enough. It’s as soft as leather yet firm as iron._

 

And then the records go further back still.

 

_The Prong is ours._

 

_We got no further today. I fear the god’s wrath. His violence grows as the years turn. Even Chrysis is loosing control. There is nothing of that future we glimpsed, and the god’s wrath upon mentioning the artefact is fearsome. If I had the honour of his blood I would swallow that cursed thing whole. I would devour its gold and light and power. Any man would, but this is why Deimos has the honour of it. He craves it, but he resists._

_The Leonidas Spear is still lost to us._

 

Altaïr scratches notes. As he closes the book and reaches for the next, he hears the soft hush of a footstep. He opens the next book, searching for the intruder with his Vision. There is nothing, the library is empty except for him. Altaïr looks over his shoulder to where he’d heard the step. “Wherever you are, who you are,” he says with quiet menace, “come out.” There’s no answer from amongst the stacks, and Altaïr shuts his book with a snap. His Vision still shows him nothing, and he sighs. If there’s nothing his Vision can find, then he must have been hearing things. This is confirmed when the guard stationed outside the library tells him no one else had come or gone, and Altaïr knows that there are no other doors.

When reports come from Acre of Templar activity, he’s glad to lead the investigations there himself. That’s when he runs into the Templar woman from Majd Addin’s funeral. He learns her name is Maria Thorpe, and learns of her life back in England as they travel to Cyprus in pursuit of the Templar Archive. Maria is scornful of him and the Assassins, but it doesn’t matter — Altaïr is drawn to her, and soon she to him. As he kills Templars and closes in on the location of their Archive, he finds old feelings stirring within his heart, feelings he had thought had died with Adha what seems like a lifetime ago. There is no one more surprised than him when he leaves Cyprus with the realisation that he is falling for this Templar woman. No one is more delighted when his feelings are returned.

He marries Maria Thorpe two years after, and their first son, Darim, is soon born. Sef is born another two years later. Altaïr delights in both. Under him the Brotherhood flourishes, and those who whispered their doubts about his ill-fit towards the title of Mentor are silenced. All, except for Abbas and a knot of those who would despise Altaïr no matter what. Altaïr spreads word of the Creed, travelling from city to city. He goes to Alexandria and Athens, to Constantinople. He returns to his family at Masyaf and dotes on them, encouraging all to do the same with their families. It was a practice looked upon in shame under Al Mualim’s command. Altaïr has learnt through bitter experience such ties shouldn’t be rejected but nurtured; shunning them had turned him, in part, into the person he had been.

How he dotes on Maria. He cups her hands as they lay together at night, and throughout the years his stay smooth with youth whereas as hers become veined. Wrinkles appear on her brow, at the corners of her mouth and eyes, yet Altaïr is untouched by any. At first they joke that he is ageing remarkably well. Maria grumbles with jealousy, and Altaïr nips the tip of her nose with a wicked grin before they kiss again, happy and content. Such words soon turn from jokes to concerns. By the time Altaïr is forty-five he has not changed from when he was twenty-six. He cuts his thumbs again and again and watches the skin heal. He tears apart the Brotherhood’s records for answers, sends for Alamut’s and Lambesar’s scrolls when Masyaf’s offer nothing. He stares into the depths of the Apple and demands its knowledge, pushing as much as he dares before he must retreat lest he lose himself.

Maria is not the only one that notices. In the Spring of 1217 Malik seeks him in the Master’s study, and the two look at each other.

“You wrote,” Malik says. His hair is almost all grey, and his eyes are heavy, lined.

Altaïr rolls his neck and sighs, staring at the grain in the desk’s wood. “I need you.”

“The novices say you lock yourself away in your rooms staring into that damned Apple. Tell me it isn’t true.”

Altaïr’s silence speaks for itself. It would be foolish to deny that he hasn’t advanced the Brotherhood’s methods and technologies, but there are precious few who know the truth about it. Such things he sees within the Apple, designs and machinations that make his head spin and his ache for knowledge grow. Every new design he pulls from its depths leave him feeling hollow and chipped, sick for himself and aching. The Apple is truly temptation, and there are many days Altaïr feels a slave to it, his hands cramping from holding a pencil too long as sketches flow one after another from the tip. Right now those designs and their notes are scattered around the room.

“I look into the Apple because I must,” Altaïr says, “for all of us.” He has recently found a metal mixture lighter and stronger than anything known, and itches to see it made. “I’ve found a way so that the novices no longer need to cut their fingers, my friend. It was there, waiting for me.”

“I fear it will poison your mind like it did Rashid’s,” Malik says.

Altaïr fixes him with his gaze. “I would rather die,” he says, “than let this thing take me.”

“So has that abomination of an artefact revealed a way you can cut yourself?”

“Not yet.” He trembles.

Malik picks up one of the many pieces of scattered paper and examines it; his eyebrows climb higher the more he reads. “Your Codex?”

Altaïr peers at him. “You disapprove.”

“I worry for you, brother. You’ve found so much, you’ve set us forward a hundred years against our enemies. Perhaps —”

“ ‘Stop’?” Altaïr grits his teeth. “Darim turns twenty-one this year,” he says, “Sef’s expecting his first child, and I look like their _brother_ , not their father. I … I must keep looking.” He snatches the paper from Malik’s fingers. “Thank you for coming all this way. The servants will see to whatever you need.”

Altaïr hasn’t called Malik to Masyaf to talk about his appearance. To the east rumour whispers Genghis Khan wields a Piece of Eden, and Altaïr doesn’t trust anyone but himself to retrieve it. He wishes Malik to act as Mentor whilst he is gone, for the truth of the matter is he doesn’t know how long he’ll be. Maria will be coming with him, as will Darim. Sef will remain. Malik agrees, and plans are made to leave for Mongolia. Altaïr, Maria, and Darim depart in the early Summer. Altaïr hopes they’ll return within a year at most, perhaps two, but it’s not to be.

Altaïr spends the campaign advising their Mongolian brothers about what he knows, but not as himself.

The first time he had met Qulan Gal, he had offered a false name, squeezing Maria’s fingers when she had glanced at him in askance, and had taken both her and Darim aside to explain his decision. “I am fifty-two,” he says, “but I don’t look it. And I have the feeling we shall be in contact with these Assassins for a long while.”

He’s right to caution. Ten long years go by before the Khan lies dead; however, the Piece of Eden he had wielded is nowhere to be found. Darim had struck the killing blow, shooting Genghis Khan with his crossbow as the warlord had attempted to flee an Assassin ambush.

Qulan Gal is a cheery, yet serious man. A week after Genghis Khan’s death Altaïr and his family leave Mongolia. Qulan Gal embraces Maria, laughing and clapping her on the shoulder. Her hair is brittle and grey, her shooting arm not quite as strong as it used to be. But age has not made her any less formidable. She can still put a man on his back and lift any of the heavy logs the novices use to train their strength. Altaïr still loves her as madly as he did the day they married. “It has been most pleasurable to fight alongside the mighty Maria Thorpe of England,” he says. “I only wish your husband were here too.”

“I’ll relay your words,” Maria says. “Farewell, Qulan. Find that Sword for us.”

Qulan puts a hand to his chest and bows.

* * *

Masyaf is no longer Altaïr’s. His return heralds only destruction and death. Sef’s death, Malik’s death, and Maria’s. Abbas has taken Masyaf for his own, installed a council of which he is the head, and severed every arch of support Altaïr had. Altaïr is forced to flee with Darim, and the single thing he manages to take with him is the Apple. He and Darim turn to Alamut for refuge.

Altaïr’s long since beyond weeping. He hasn’t wept since he was a child, and he thinks he’s forgotten how, he’s conditioned his heart to be so hard. He cannot weep for their deaths. Maria’s haunts him. It had been his fault, he had used the Apple in his anger and grief, and she had paid the price for it. He spends the harrowing days to Alamut in silence. He distracts himself along the road by scouting ahead with Darim. They’re joined by a few of Masyaf’s Assassins, but their numbers are small, and Altaïr trusts none of them. It is a month’s journey on foot to Alamut, and it will take them through desert plains and mountains. Altaïr sharpens his blades and swears retribution on Abbas. He is long past hate for the man, but he cannot forget his disdain. Abbas is a weak creature, and he deserves none of the glory of the position of Mentor; Altaïr has already seen the name sullied once, and promises that he will not stand for another to do what Al Mualim did.

 _At least Al Mualim didn’t take the position for malice._ Of his lust for power, Abbas matches him in that.

“Father.” Altaïr, sitting on a rock above the camp the band has made, nods his acknowledge to Darim. Darim climbs to sit beside him, and Altaïr grasps his son’s hand, running his thumb over the hard callouses on Darim’s fingertips. He says nothing of Darim’s red-rimmed eyes.

“All is sound?” Altaïr asks.

“Yes.” Altaïr knew it already, but it brings some small measure of peace to Darim to report it.

Altaïr closes his eyes. Images of Sef lunge at him from the dark. He runs a knuckle down the side of his nose, swallowing down bile. He rests his chin on the back of his hand, his elbow propped on his knee. “He was barely a man when we last saw him,” he says. “And now …”

“Will Alamut welcome us?” Darim asks.

“They must,” Altaïr tells him. “They take no part in Masyaf’s politics.”

Alamut does shelter them, and Altaïr retreats into himself. He spends days staring at the Apple, and those days turns into weeks and months, they turn into years. Darim is driven away by it. He snarls in disgust and worry and leaves for Francia and Maria’s England. Altaïr plunders more secrets. He spends sleepless days and nights staring into the Apple, stopping only to eat and relieve himself. The Apple is a hateful thing. So, so hateful. It would rage against him if it could, Altaïr knows. It would resent him. Its secrets are numerous and hard to take, but they do release. They come clawing and screaming from the Apple’s centre. Altaïr writes every stolen secret down, and it results in first dozens, then hundreds of pages of scrawlings. He fights down bitter memories of Malik rebuking him for similar behaviour years before. Now Sef’s family have been driven away by it, as had Darim. Hateful, hateful thing. In one fit of rage, Altaïr demands it to tell him how to destroy it, but the Apple is a coy thing. It gives up another whisper, another secret, and Altaïr’s anger is quickly forgotten.

Below Alamut is a series of natural rock tunnels, as vast and confusing as a rabbit’s burrow. There is something ancient down there, the Apple promises. It can show him the way. Few have found it in its thousands of years of existence; fewer have come back.

The torch’s fire is the only warmth in the long stretches of caves. Altaïr readjusts the cloak around his shoulders and jumps down a small ledge. There indeed is a presence down here that is like the Apple in Sense. The crackle of energy playing along the roof of his mouth becomes more pronounced the further he walks. He must be far, far down, hundreds of feet surely. He has been walking for hours, but the Apple beckons him on. _This way, this way._

Then one moment he is treading on natural rock, and the next he is walking over smooth stone. Altaïr waves the torch by his feet, and a heaviness settles in his gut when he recognises the pulsing patterns of gold set into the rock like veins. Altaïr doesn’t need to go much further before he emerges into a vast cavern the size of a great courtyard. The rock is a deep blue-black, cut and polished smooth as silk. The cavern is a tetradecagon, and the gold light from the veins is as bright as fire. The entrance Altaïr stands at is an elevated outcropping of rock, and steps lead into a deep-set basin. In the basin’s centre is a jagged, uncut spire, and on its top is a shrine. Altaïr climbs down then up again. The shrine is a single slab of ink-black rock, and around it floats golden symbols unlike anything Altaïr’s ever seen. If he were not so familiar with the Apple he would have been lost for words. This science, for he knows enough to know this isn’t magic, is far vaster and more terrifying than he could have ever imagined. Scattered on the floor around the slab are disks. Each of them has a hole in the centre and are about the size of his palm. They’re made of something neither metal nor rock, but a material Altaïr has no word for. They’re decorated by the same lines as the walls, but these lines do not glow. Many of the disks are broken like clay pots, and from the way they lie he would conclude they had fallen, tossed about. He takes six disks and places them securely in a pouch slung across his shoulder.

The slab of rock hums. Altaïr eyes it, wary. It seems alive in the same way as the Apple in its slumber, and he reaches out a hesitant hand. He touches the slab with the very tips of his fingers. Suddenly he is transported.

He sees a white room fitted with light. The architecture is unlike anything he’s ever seen before, all sharp edges and undecorated surfaces, blinding in their intensity. Black boxes each as tall as a man sit at the room’s corners, blinking with the light of a thousand trapped stars that flash white, red and green. High windows dominate the space, sunlight spilling onto a scene Altaïr can only call grotesque. In the room’s centre is a table, and upon the table is the body of a twitching man; Altaïr cannot see his face but his hands are clenched into fists, the tendons straining. They are young hands, long-fingered like his own. Surrounding him are an old man in a white coat and a young woman with blonde hair. Altaïr cannot move, so he must watch, helpless, as the woman looks from the man on the table to a small, see-through board the size of a book; she rapidly taps at a second panel attached to it.

“We’ve pushed it too much today,” she says. “I’m pulling him out.”

“No!” the man snaps. “He’s held up remarkably well, the sync rate is incredible!”

“And despite his ancestry he’s still human. It’s too much, and unless you want a repeat of Sixteen, we have to pull the plug.”

The old man grinds his teeth, and Altaïr expects him to say no. “Fine,” he says, petulant. “Once the next point has been reached pull him.”

The woman nods. “Three, two, one.” The man on the table jerks. His legs curl up, his fingers grip the sides of the table, and there is a mechanical whirring. The man scrambles for a hold. Altaïr hears the sound of vomit hitting tile.

“Oh, for God’s _sakes_ ,” the old man exclaims.

“Go fuck yourself,” the younger rasps through chattering teeth, and Altaïr recoils. The man on the table is no stranger, for despite the fuller face, the man is him.

Altaïr pulls away from the slab. The vision vanishes, and he winces as a snap of static arches between him and the stone. He steps back as something ancient rumbles, and he imagines then a great beast uncoiling. But soon that feeling leaves, and he stands in the Vault with a torch near-extinguished.

* * *

The spring has been warm, and it promises to turn into a glorious summer. The horse’s hooves crunch the sun-baked mud and overturn the dusty rocks leading up the mountain path. The night is hot and dry. The hair sticks to the back of his neck slick with sweat, and his eyes are downcast, trained on the road. He can Sense the Assassins waiting in the rocks, watching him with intensity. There are arrows pointed at him, but they do not loose. His robes and the missing finger on his left hand speak of his place. Altaïr has trod the road to Masyaf a thousand times, yet he’s never known it to be so grim. It’s been nineteen years since he last rode this path, and even the air feels different, tense. The high mountains rising on either side crush him down.

He’s halted just before he comes to the village’s gate by a young novice, surely no older than sixteen. Altaïr’s horse paws at the dust.

“Stop, stranger,” the novice says. “State your business.”

“I come on business from Alamut.” Altaïr’s voice is low, and he holds himself tight in his traveller’s cloak. “Business from _da_ _’i_ Muhammad. The Master is expecting me.”

“From Alamut …” The novice’s eyes light up in awe, and he waves for the gate to open. Altaïr nods and urges the horse forward.

The village is quieter than he’s ever known. Altaïr dismounts in the square and looks up to the keep, collected. The novice hurries around the horse to take its head. “I’ll send word to the Master —”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Altaïr says over him.

The novice frowns. “But …”

“But nothing,” Altaïr tells him. “I’m tired and thirsty. I’ll announce myself to the Master when I’m ready.”

“I can’t let you do that,” the novice says. Altaïr fixes his eagle’s eyes on the boy. The novice freezes, staring. “You …”

“Will do nothing,” Altaïr tells him, and strokes the horse’s neck with his knuckles. “Take care of her.” He moves off into the village. He climbs the slope, gazing around at the houses he had played amongst as a child, and as a young man had defended. If not for the repairs made to the dwellings, the missing ones and the new, it’s like nothing has changed. Altaïr had killed Al Mualim fifty-six years ago, and he has not changed. Curious eyes peer at him from behind shuttered windows, and Altaïr sinks into the confines of his hood. He strides to one of the houses with purpose and knocks sharply on the door.

“What?” The door swings open, and the man hesitates when he beholds Altaïr.

“I’m looking for ibn Rauf,” Altaïr says.

“Ibn Rauf’s dead; I’m his son, Suleiman. Who are you?”

“Ibn Sef. Our grandfathers were good friends. May I come in?”

The man pauses, then lets him in. Altaïr crosses the threshold and lowers his hood. The house is small, with two rooms. The first is the main room where everyday tasks take place, and the second for sleeping. Narrow wooden platforms ring the main room, and upon them are nests of blankets and pillows.

“Ibn Sef … You’re the grandson of Altaïr.” Suleiman peers at him. “My father used to speak of the yellow eyes the old Mentor had. You have them, too; I never thought they would be such a colour.”

“Tell me what’s happened here.” Altaïr nods towards the door. “The village is like-dead.”

“Abbas is less than kind,” Suleiman says bitterly. “He taxes the villagers too much, and the Assassins of the fortress grow fat and lazy. He lets those feral dogs of bandits stalk between the houses and take what they want, so long as they guard the mountain pass for him. If that wasn’t enough, rogue _fedayeen_ keep us from the castle.”

Altaïr asks, “Who is there to guard against?”

“Anything and anyone the Master deems an enemy, which is everyone not living in the fortress.”

 _Such paranoia_ _… Abbas, you lost fool._ “The bandits tried to kill me at the watering hole,” Altaïr says. “They won’t be killing anyone anymore.”

“You’re the one who killed Bayhas,” Suleiman says in a hush. “Fahad, his father, sits in the keep now, and he beat some poor girl bloody in his grief.”

Altaïr hangs his head. “The tradesman made it back?”

“Mukhlis? Aye. You must be the stranger he spoke of.”

Altaïr nods, and rubs at his lip with a thumb. “Life has been hard since my grandfather’s flight.”

“It has. So why have you returned?”

“The Brotherhood has been bastardised. I Sense discontent in the air, and within you. I’ve come to take it back. Will there be others willing to help?”

“A coup?” Suleiman asks. “Your words breed danger, brother.”

“And Abbas does not breed corruption? Things must be set right, I —” Altaïr shakes his head. “No, nevermind it.” He had been about to speak of his previous life here. “Would you know how many would be willing to take up arms?”

“Perhaps.” Suleiman asks, “Why are you asking me? I could be with Abbas.”

Altaïr snorts. “You’ve told me everything I need to know where your heart lies. I shouldn’t impose on you any longer. In the morning, go around the villagers and tell them to meet by the cypress tree tomorrow night. They are welcome to share my fire.”

“I will.” Suleiman nods. “You do not impose. No son of Altaïr does. If you need a place to stay the night, then my door is open.” Altaïr takes up the offer gratefully. He spends the next day resting and slotting together long, thin tubes of unbreakable metal and fine levers and catches. Altaïr works in silence, for the first time in many years mulling over plans of murder.

Abbas’ men learn he is in the village. They don’t know who is he except that he has the eyes of the disgraced Mentor. The boy who let him through last night is taken to the fortress and whipped for his incompetence. Altaïr comes to treat him afterwards with pastes and herbs gleaned from the Apple, cleaning the wounds and stitching them tight; he does the same with the beaten girl, who whimpers under every touch. Whispers follow him, and as he walks amongst the villagers Altaïr spots two of Abbas’ men watching. Cruel men both, he Senses. They stalk him throughout the day, and when the sun starts to sink they corner him.

“The idiot boy on the gate said you were sent by Muhammad,” the first says. “I think you’re a liar, ibn Sef. Perhaps you should be called what you really are though — son of a traitor’s blood.”

“Bold words,” Altaïr replies. “If you do not step aside they will be the last you speak.”

“You threaten us? _Us?_ ” the second breathes, standing over Altaïr as best he can. His hand grips the hilt of his sword. “We come with a message. The Master extends you, who calls himself ibn Sef, his invitation of hospitality.”

“A kind offer for a traitor’s son, but no.” Altaïr nods to the sword. “Now what will you do? Slay me where I stand?”

The first man snorts. “We’re not barbarians. But surely, a bed in the keep would be more comfortable than in this shit-stain of a villa—”

Altaïr kicks the man in the groin and forces him down, jabbing him in the soft part of his throat. The man gasps, and Altaïr takes his tongue between his fingers and cuts it in two. His companion leaps back, horrified, but Suleiman had been right in saying Masyaf’s Assassins have grown lax. Altaïr disarms the man before he can do much of anything and puts him down next to the second. “One more word,” he reminds them. “Now go and tell your false Master that I have and will continue to refuse his invitation.”

The two limp away, and Altaïr wishes he hadn’t been so rash. Two birds fight over the severed tongue in the dirt.

Altaïr had invited those wishing to join him to sit under the village’s central cypress tree, and he finds thirty men around a fire with their swords in easy reach. Behind them stand women and children, hollow-eyed and frightened as they listen to the men whisper.

“They say the Mentor screams in his sleep,” one man says, “calling out for his father.”

A second snorts. “Abbas. What a miserable man.”

“It is not our place to judge,” a third decrees.

“It certainly _is_. If our Master has gone mad, I would like to know.”

Altaïr steps into the firelight, and those surrounding the flames part for him. Altaïr sits on the dirt, crosses his legs. “Pity Abbas,” he says, “do not mock him. He has lived a life in shame of his family’s legacy. He is desperate for power, because he is powerless.”

“He is our Mentor,” the third man says, standing and pointing a damning finger at Altaïr. “And unlike Al Mualim or Altaïr, he never betrayed us.”

“Nonsense,” another man cuts. “Altaïr was no traitor. He was driven out. Unjustly.” He peers at Altaïr, and Altaïr meets his eyes. The man swallows. “Is it … is it true? Are you …?”

Altaïr addresses the gathered people. “I am Altaïr ibn Sef,” he starts. “Altaïr ibn-La’Ahad, my grandfather … is dead.” There are mutters from amongst the crowd, and Altaïr raises his hands for silence. “He told me about Masyaf and what has befallen her. I want to stop it. My uncle is racing here as fast as he is able with my grandfather’s bones, and with your help I would have him laid to rest in a place free of Abbas’ hate.”

“How do we know you are who you say you are?” someone sneers. “Sef had two children, not three.”

“I was born after my father’s death,” Altaïr says. “If you wish for proof, I have my grandfather’s gift of Vision.” He points to one of the men standing back from the light of the fire. “You’re Abbas’ creature.”

The man turns to run before Altaïr has finished speaking. The others catch the spy and force him to the ground; one of them looks back to Altaïr in askance of what to do, his eyes white with the reflection of the fire.

“Restrain him until this is over,” Altaïr says. “Only one man is dying today, and he sits in that fortress.”

“You won’t win!” Abbas’ man screams. “You’re unorganised, you’re weak! We’re Assassins! You cannot stand against our might!”

“Assassins who lounge all day?” Altaïr asks him. “These people are more than capable of taking what they want.”

“And who are you to take it from them? You’re not of Masyaf, but Alamut.”

“I am an _Assassin_. The Brotherhood should never divide by faction.” There are nods of approval from the others, and Altaïr sees other Assassins in the midst of the villagers. He turns to them. “Will you help me take back Masyaf?”

“Aye!”

“And look!” one of the Assassins in the back of the crowd calls, pointing over their heads. Altaïr Senses more coming down from the fortress each bearing armfuls of weapons. These they spill at the feet of the crowd, and at their head is a young man with features Altaïr recognises at once. Malik’s features.

He half-stumbles to the young man, hardly daring to breathe. “You …” He gets a hold of himself. “You lead here?”

“These men, aye,” Malik’s son says, and the boy has his father’s eyes too. “You must be ibn Sef. My … my father and your grandfather were close. The Brotherhood call me Tazim, but my real name … I am named for him.”

“Malik,” Altaïr says. “As I am named for my grandfather.”

Young Malik grins and gestures to the swords on the ground. “Abbas’ men are weak, you’re right about that. There are some few of us who still hold value for the Brotherhood and its tenets. We offer our strength to yours.”

“How many men does Abbas have?”

“Thirty, forty perhaps. I suspect more will abandon him once they see our host. Fewer than half the fighters here are true Assassins.” Malik says, “We’ve been sorely waiting for this day. We just needed a final push.”

“Then let’s go.” To the villagers and the loyal, Altaïr calls, “For too long the castle on the hill has been a dark and forbidding place, and tonight I hope to make it a beacon of light once again. I, Altaïr, blood of the Eagle of Masyaf, beseech your help with this task! But we will not welcome the dawn through a veil of Assassin blood. Those who remain loyal to Abbas are our enemies today, but tomorrow they will be our companions. Their friendship can only be won if our victory is merciful. Kill _only_ if absolutely necessary. We come to bring peace to Masyaf, not death. In the name of my grandfather, there will be no. Killing.” He catches his breath. “Abbas Sofian has broken the tenets of our Creed. He has killed innocent men, women, and children indiscriminate. He has flouted Masyaf and her power under the names of those greater than him. He has driven our Brotherhood into the dust, and it has become a shell, an echo that invites foul things. No more, I say. No more!”

The assembled cheer him and call his name.

Altaïr leads the men up the hill, and the few Assassins that oppose them offer little trouble. No one is harmed, and the offenders are either restrained or join their ranks; Altaïr sends others to keep an eye on them. He looks to the Master’s Tower and wonders if Abbas watches their progress.

They meet no further resistance on their march up the hill, and are greeting by five men high on the parapet above the castle gate. Altaïr quickly checks with the Vision the same log trap that had caught de Sablé is not to be sprung upon them. The trap is empty; the gates are the only thing that must be overcome.

“Return to your homes!” one of the men screams. “Surrender your leaders, and all shall be forgiven!”

“We don’t want your forgiveness!” Malik calls back. “We want you gone!”

“Malik,” Altaïr says, taking him by the upper arm, “take three of your most loyal men and scale the walls. There’s a length of stonework to the north which can be easily climbed. Disable the men up there.”

“I never knew such a weakness was there,” Malik replies. “You’ve been planning this a while.”

“It would have been my grandmother’s wish.” Altaïr’s throat is tight. “Go. And be quick.”

Malik taps three men on the shoulder, and they set off. Altaïr steps forward to the gate.

“Smart boy,” the man atop the gate says, and points a crossbow over the wall. “You’ll be ibn Sef.”

“I’m not surrendering,” Altaïr says. “I’m asking you to open the gates.”

“You think me a fool?” the man sneers. “If we open the gates you’ll kill us.”

“I’ve no interest in hurting you, and even less in killing,” Altaïr says. “If you open the gates, we’ll welcome you to join us. You must see that Abbas has corrupted the Brotherhood. Join us, and we can make his wrongs right again.”

“And what? Replace him with you?” The man shakes his head. “No, I think not. I have what I want: respect, power. I am favoured, and I am the one with the weapon pointed at you. I imagine with your death your precious uprising will scatter. I’ll be hailed a he—”

Malik drops on the man, and his men take Abbas’s from behind. Once they have been dealt with, the gates are opened. Altaïr is the first into the courtyard. The weapon racks that had been full when he was a child stand empty and covered with dirt, the training ring unused. The Assassin banners on the walls hang limp and tired. The courtyard is but a ghost of what it used to be, where Altaïr had awed his teachers and peers, where he had learnt to fight, to climb, to kill.

Three Assassins wait for him on the fortress steps, crossbows aimed at his chest. “Stand aside,” Altaïr tells them. “You won’t be harmed.” Malik comes up on his left side, and Suleiman on his right. The Assassins tremble, and lower their weapons. Altaïr is the one to push open the keeps’ main doors.

More men with crossbows await on the mezzanine level, and Altaïr alone steps forward. But the men do not loose. Altaïr hears a shuffling step.

Abbas is bent with age and spite, and he wheezes a breath as he beholds the mob in the fortress entry. “You’ll die for this,” he hisses. “Every last one of you, and your families too! Fahad will see to it. I’ll have your bones burnt and thrown in the sea. I’ll raze your houses, I’ll kill your pets, your livestock, and your crops. I’ll wipe the memory of your existence from his world for defying me.”

“How?” a woman jeers. “You haven’t been able to kill so much as a fly since the Mentor’s flight.”

“ _I_ am Mentor!” Abbas screams. “Seize her!”

Altaïr steps in front of her, his face shrouded by his hood. The crossbows turn on him, and Abbas curls his lip.

“You … you must be ibn Sef. You cut my man’s tongue out.”

“My name is Altaïr. Age hasn’t been kind to you, Abbas Sofian, seeing enemies wherever you turn.”

“Of course, when they have broken down my door and stand in _my_ fortress,” Abbas hisses. “I will defend _my_ citadel to the last man. Would you not do the same?”

“This was never your fortress, it belongs to the Assassins,” Altaïr retorts. “And their rightful Mentor.”

“Silence! You whelp, you traitor’s get.”

“He is blood of Altaïr,” Malik sneers, “and he’s already done much more for Masyaf than you ever can hope to have done yourself.”

“Altaïr is dead!” Abbas screams. “That dog lies with the worms. You owe nothing to his bloodline! I am your _Master_! And any who speak his name from this moment on will be blinded, starting with you, Tazim.”

“Your heart is weak, and these people know it,” Altaïr says. “Surrender, Abbas.”

“Ibn Sef, you say?” Abbas spits. “Your father died pleading for his life, you know? And when pleading did not work he ran, and the killing blow was lain upon his shoulders. I placed the blame on _his_ wretched father —” Abbas points to Malik “— and your fool grandfather _believed_ me! If not for that foreign whore he called wife he would have died believing his best friend cut down his son. He killed her, you know? He stabbed her in his grief, again, and again, and again. I fed her body to the dogs, and it was more than she deserved.”

Every word of it is a lie, and though Altaïr knows it his rage near-swallows him. Instead he says, “You expect me to believe that when you could not believe the truth of your own father’s death?”

“You are not _worthy_ to speak of him!” Abbas shrills. “You son of a gutter, heretic whore! Cursed beast, devil’s shame, _dog_. One of my fondest memories is killing your father.” He breathes like a bellows, his eyes crazed. “The fear in his eyes, the smell as he soiled himself. He died still begging for mercy.”

“Surrender, Abbas,” Altaïr says again.

“Kill the traitors!” Abbas commands in a whine at his men on the mezzanine. “Kill every one of them and throw their bodies on the dunghill!”

“All you can do,” Altaïr says, “is fling your pathetic hurt.”

Abbas slackens, and Altaïr raises his arm to shoot him with the gunpowder weapon. The people behind Altaïr start at the _bang_ , and Abbas topples down the steps, landing broken at their feet. He twitches, choking on blood. As the smoke clears Altaïr steps to him, kneeling on the stone and lowering his face. Abbas’ mouth quivers when he beholds Altaïr, young as he was when Al Mualim drove his knife into his abdomen. Altaïr cannot fool his childhood friend with the lie he has told the others — Abbas knows his face as well as his own, and his yellow eagle’s eyes.

“Brother,” Altaïr says. “Know that I feel nothing toward your death. And know that I never lied about your father. He never died a coward, he reclaimed his honour.”

“ _Shaitan_ ,” is the last thing Abbas whispers before Altaïr silences him forever. Something unclenches in his chest, and a cold calm settles over him. He closes Abbas’ eyes and stands, looking to the gathered Assassins. Many look at him with hope, faces flushed with glory, shock, and triumph, whilst others look at him with distrust, and some with poorly concealed hatred. But there is enough here. The day is won, and Masyaf is his once more.

* * *

The bones they inter in the tomb of Altaïr ibn-La’Ahad are those of a poor man. Naim had been a good friend to Altaïr in Alamut, and his death was quiet and unnoticed. He alone had figured out who and what Altair was amongst all of the people in the fortress. Altaïr murmurs prayers over the grave, kissing his knuckle and speaking hymns for the man. Next to his grave is the fresh-made one for Maria. Her bones had been dumped by Abbas, but the people never forgot where. Next to her is Sef. The graves are marked each with an elegant gravestone, bearing their names in Arabic and English, Islamic dates, and the Assassin crest. Altaïr clenches dirt between his fingers, swallows his grief, and stands. Darim watches him.

“They’ll never know about Naim,” Altaïr tells him as they return to the keep. “And no one else other than us must know.”

“I understand, Father,” Darim says, bemused. “We’ve been living these lies long enough —”

“Don’t say that,” Altaïr sighs. “I know they are lies, but do not even give word to it. It is truth, and it must remain so.”

They walk through Masyaf’s garden with its bright-plumed birds and humming insects, its verdant grasses, rainbow flowers, and flowing fountains. Alamut’s gardens boasted tamed cats of every kind, leopards and tigers that would eat from the hand and curl up with the doe, and monkeys that would feed you sweet fruits. Masyaf’s garden is far more welcoming to Altaïr. He had played here as a child, and first known a woman in its corners. And now his family is buried here in its beauty. Like many things under Abbas, the garden had spoiled, but it is nothing that cannot be repaired.

Malik waits for him and Darim at the gate. “We’ve released two more from the cells today,” he reports, “and though we’ll keep a close eye on them, we expect them to return service to the Brotherhood.”

“Good,” Darim says. “That leaves only seven of Abbas’ men. Hopefully it won’t be long until they walk in the sun again.” Of that Altaïr isn’t particularly hopeful. “How does training go?”

“Once the men can lap the courtyard thrice without wheezing for breath,” Malik muses, “it’ll go better.”

Darim chuckles. “Once you’re done bring the master builder to my tower. There are things we must discuss.”

Malik bows and goes. Darim has assumed the title of Mentor, and it is a role he has earned in more ways than one. He speaks with Altaïr’s wisdom, and his council is sage and well-thought. He works to restore the Brotherhood to its former glory, Masyaf to a beacon, and its Assassins to fighting form. “Starting with taking in those guts,” he’s more than often heard to mutter as he stares out of the study’s window. And if he needs council himself, Altaïr is more than glad to give it. Altaïr must retreat to a more discreet role in things. He sleeps in the cell below Darim’s, and works on completing his Codex. He also turns the Memory Seals over in his fingers, wondering what to do with them. That morning he had realised what.

The master builder meets Darim and Altaïr in the tower an hour later. He bows first to Darim, then to Altaïr. “Masters,” he says, “how can I be of service?”

“My father’s last wish was for a library to be built beneath our keep,” Darim says, and he glances towards Altaïr to seek his approval. He nods and grasps his son by the hand. He hopes to convey how sorry he is for making him do this; perhaps Darim understands.

“A … a library?” The builder frowns. “To replace the current one?”

“In addition to,” Darim says. “My father acquired hordes of knowledge over the course of his life, and we need a place to store it. He also grew a deep appreciation of Alamut’s library, and thought it well about time Masyaf had something similar.”

Work is begun two months afterwards. The Brotherhood heals, and their influence grows once more. Altaïr works closely with Darim during this time, managing correspondences with other Assassin branches and keep an eye on the East. Trouble stirs on the horizon. The Mongols are restless, and their ranging expands west.

“They’re coming for us,” Darim tells Altaïr, three years after Abbas’ death. “They want vengeance against Genghis Khan.”

Altaïr chews the inside of his cheek. “I should have been more careful that day,” he whispers, bitter. “It was my fault that we were discovered at the pivotal moment.” Darim can’t deny it. In 1227 it had been Altaïr and Qulan Gal who had been meant to kill Genghis Khan, but Altaïr had been spotted, and the alarm raised. If not for Darim and Maria’s actions, the Khan might have escaped that night.

“That doesn’t matter anymore,” Darim says. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Altaïr says, but there is a part of him that does know. He can’t put it into words yet; all other options need to be examined.

The library is completed in 1255. Altaïr’s many books are moved into the grand vaulted space. He turns on his heel, looking up at the ceiling and nodding his satisfaction. His eyes fall then to the door. It’s something of his own design, and the stone quarried from a block of the ancient Vault beneath Alamut. Transporting it here and carving it to shape had been a feat in and of itself. Altaïr had provided the knowledge of how it was to be done. He had chosen the stone for its unique qualities unlike any he has seen before; it cannot be damaged by conventional means. Steel chisels break upon its surface, as do other stonemason tools. Altaïr had devised a new method for the works to cut the stone, using chisels instead tipped with diamond. The masons kept the diamonds for their work, and each had become rich in his own right. Altaïr traces the palm-sized circles on the door’s surface, each of them the size of a disk he’d taken from the Alamut Vault. They sit heavy in his pockets now.

News comes of the Mongols overrunning Assassin fortresses in the East. In 1256, Alamut falls. The news is greeted with moans from the Masyaf Assassins, and Altaïr can no longer delay.

“The Assassins must disappear,” he tells Darim.

“We can’t afford to,” Darim protests immediately. “We just gained our power once more, and now you’re asking for us to disband it again?”

“We will keep our power,” Altaïr says, “but it will be power of a different kind. Our work will never cease in its importance. We weren’t always a public order. For a thousand years we operated from the shadows. We only started raising fortresses after Hassan-i Sabbah brought us into the light. It worked for a time, but it’s made us a target. We have to retreat back to where we came.”

Darim pinches and rubs at the skin between his eyes. “You’re not one to ask small things,” he says. “I’ll have to … I’ll have to think about it.”

“Do,” Altaïr says, “but this is the only course of action I can think of in which the Brotherhood survives. If even Alamut can fall, then surely we will too.”

The Mongols arrive on Masyaf’s doorstep a year later. Altaïr’s library has been emptied, the contents moved to Alexandria. Masyaf is populated by half a hundred souls, the village abandoned. It was no small small task convincing the people to leave it, even in the threat of imminent death. They had been born here, raised here, their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents had died here, their children buried here. But they have left. The scouts say the Mongols are but three days ride away. Those who remain at Masyaf have little illusions they will leave here alive.

“Nephew.”

Altaïr stands atop the parapet, and he turns at Darim’s voice. He’s accompanied by the Venetians, Niccolò and Maffeo Polo. They’re merchants, explorers. Darim had invited them to Masyaf with one of Altaïr’s many goals in mind. Altaïr holds now what he had planned to give them. His Codex, and the Seals.

Niccolò bows with a flourish of his hands. “ _Ser_ Altaïr,” he says. “I hope this isn’t to tell me the Mongols are beating down the gates.”

“Not for a few days more,” Altaïr says. “I have gifts for you. From my grandfather.” He proffers the items. “His Codex, and the keys to Masyaf’s library.”

“That’s very, erm, _kind_ of him, but why us? He’s been dead for some years now, and I’m quite sure he never so much as heard our names.”

“He wanted them entrusted to someone who would spread the word of the Creed,” Altaïr says. “His Codex contains vast knowledge that will benefit all. The library likewise.” He nods to Darim. “My uncle thinks you the perfect men for that.”

“The Mentor is very kind with his trust in us,” Maffeo says. “And to think we met by sheer chance!”

“Friends,” Darim laughs, “will you accept this honour?”

“Gladly,” Niccolò says.

Altaïr passes the Codex and Seals, and a weight lifts from his shoulders. “Guard them well.”

“With our very lives, _messer_.” Maffeo too bows.

The Venetians leave Masyaf later that day with an escort down the mountains. Darim says, “I’ll miss them. They’re good men, and good drinking companions.”

Altaïr shakes his head and rolls his eyes, doing his best to hide his smile. Al Mualim had never allowed his students to partake in alcohol, and it’s a philosophy Altaïr has continued to follow for himself. He’s never begrudged Darim for it. “You need to leave too,” Altaïr says to him as they dismount the parapet.

“Not until I must,” Darim replies. “You said yourself there’s a few more days until Hülegü Khan arrives.”

The Mongols arrive not three days later, but two. Masyaf is taken by surprise, and the fifty souls left stand in one last defence of the fortress. Altaïr stands next to Darim, his hand around the Apple. The Mongol horde has half broken down the village gate already.

“Be ready!” Darim says to the Assassins. “We have time, and we have an escape route, but our goal is to hold them here for as long as possible. We must give our people and the Venetians as much time to escape as we can.”

The Assassins give a rallying cry, and in the village below, the Mongols break through the gate. Altaïr grips the Apple tight, and reaches for its power. He has used such power only a handful of times, and never since Maria’s death. It was because of this power she had died. Once, Altaïr had said to Malik that he knew he could use the Apple’s power and play it like an instrument, and the illusions he sends forth have none of the crudeness of Al Mualim’s creations. Altaïr makes a vast wave of arrows appear from nowhere, and the Mongols scream as the sun winks into darkness. They throw their shields up, and Altaïr flinches as lives are snuffed from existence. There isn’t substance to the arrows, but each of them holds a touch of death regardless. The Apple had shown him how it was done, but Altaïr hadn’t understood it. It was the same science that had given the swords of Al Mualim’s phantoms edges. The next wave of the horde steps over the bodies of their comrades, and are confronted by Altaïr’s next illusion. A thousand riders pour down the paths between the houses, their faces shadowed by their beaked hoods and their robes flowing behind them like eagles’ wings. As their snowy horses leap for the Mongols, they are suddenly banished. Altaïr feels it like a blow to his chest, and falls against the battlements, near biting his tongue off.

“Father?” Darim whispers.

Altaïr doesn’t understand. The Mongols cry their confusion. A man rides through them, clad in bronze armour and sitting astride a coal-black warhorse. Then Khan, Altaïr realises, and in his hand, Hülegü Khan holds aloft a glowing sword. Even from so far away Altaïr can Sense its power; he spits out blood from his bitten tongue. As Hülegü screams words at them, taunting the Assassins, Altaïr takes Darim by the arm and says, “The Khan has the Piece of Eden.”

Darim swears. “That thing. We should have suspected, prepared.”

“And we didn’t and we haven’t,” Altaïr says, “so seize it another day. If you strike for it now you’ll only be killed.”

“Then you take it,” Darim says. “You can’t die.”

Altaïr says through his teeth, “That’s enough. Come.” He leaves the parapet and makes for the library, stopping only to light a torch for Darim’s sake.

The library’s empty shelves yawn, and Altaïr strides to the back of the room. Darim hovers behind him, holding the torch. There is a single plinth at the room’s end, and Altaïr places the Apple atop it. _No more._ “Retreat,” Altaïr tells Darim. “We’ve done all we can.” He won’t have the men fight against the power of a Piece of Eden. With effort, he lets the Apple go and steps back from it. In his hand is the last Memory Seal; the final lock to the door.

“You’re going to leave it here?” Darim demands.

Altaïr says, “The Apple has shown me that not even the Khan’s Sword will be able to get through the door. I made sure of it. Niccolò will scatter the Seals and that will be it.”

“Are you so certain they will not break through? Alamut was supposed to be able to withstand such a sie—”

“Masyaf is not Alamut, and I am not Rukn,” Altaïr says. “Rukn thought because he held the power of the Vault nothing could stop them. Even the most potent weapon becomes useless in the hands of the unexperienced.”

“And now the Mongols plunder the Vault’s secrets,” Darim says in disgust.

“You will _not_ lead our men to die here,” Altaïr commands. “You will leave, and will spread the Creed. I’ve lost your mother and brother here, and I won’t lose you too.”

“And you would have _me_ leave you here?” Darim demands.

“I would have you live!” Altaïr takes a breath. “I must disappear for this curse. Tell _no one_ , not even the children. This is a secret you will take to your grave, do you understand?”

“You think the worst of me if you must give me this warning,” Darim says eventually.

“I could never think the worst of you,” Altaïr assures him. He pulls him into an embrace, burying his nose in Darim’s short hair and trying to embed every last memory of his son into his being. “I love you.”

“Father …”

“You have to go,” Altaïr says, his gut wrenching, “and go in peace, Darim. My son.”

“I will see you again,” Darim says. Altaïr can’t make that promise as they part.

Darim lifts the torch above his head, its light spilling across the floor as he goes up the stairs. Altaïr is left alone with the Apple and the dark. He stands there a long while, trying not to think but unable to quiet his mind. The Assassins have gone through the single escape tunnel leading down the mountain. It spits out at the bottom of the village, and from there Darim can lead the Assassins to the goat tracks that circle the mountain crags. It’ll be too late before the Mongols discover where they’ve gone. Altaïr barely reacts when he hears the tunnel collapsed. He strips himself of his novice robes and dons those of the Master Assassin he is. Let them know, he thinks, that the Assassins have not left the world as cowards.

It’s some time still until both portcullises are broken through, and the whooping call of the Mongol horde echoes through the corridors. Altaïr places Seal on the plinth, then steps back. _No more._ He leaves before he has the chance to give either object a second thought. He seals the library door and lets loose a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He can’t get back in even if he wanted to, and anyone without the Seals would have even less of a chance. He draws his sword and turns.

He meets two Mongol scouts coming down the stairs and kills them before they have the chance to retaliate. He leaves their bodies in the stairwell and runs to the garden. Shouts go up as he’s spotted, and he ducks beneath burning crossbow bolts. More bounce off the stones at his feet and stick into the grass, the pitch on their heads setting the ground alight. A group of men stand at the bottom of the garden. One of them pisses off the balustrade’s edge. Altaïr comes for them, a spirit of death. One of the men yells in alarm as Altaïr leaps high and blocks the moon. His shadow falls on them.

Altaïr shoots the man in the air with the gunpowder weapon, and he falls dead before Altaïr lands. He stabs the first to come rushing for him in the throat, picks five, ten, fifteen more off with his knives as they come up behind him. Soon he is surrounded by a pile of dead, and his sword is bloody. Altaïr hears the clack of horse’s hooves on tile, and standing in the fountain water is Hülegü Khan. He raises the Sword, and Altaïr starts as the crackling bolt of lightning that arcs from the blade. The fountain shatters into rubble, and Hülegü laughs. He says something in Mongolian, leering, and levels the Sword at Altaïr.

Altaïr jumps the balcony rail and into the mountainside scree below the garden. The bolt flies over his head. He loses his footing and tumbles, one of his collarbones cracking in his fall. He grits his teeth against the pain and focuses on regaining his balance. Once he does, he lays low behind a scrubby bush, listening as orders are given to find him. He loads the gunpowder weapon on his bracer, ready to fire after anyone that comes for him.

The cliffs are treacherous, and he doesn’t have a choice but to jump down to many narrow shelves no regular man would dare to, but Altaïr is like a mountain goat. He knows the land, he’s confident in his abilities, he’s not afraid of getting hurt. But soon enough there’s nowhere else to go, and with the crossbow bolts and the rapidly declining space, the river is the only place. Altaïr had known it from the moment he’d conceived his plan, and the next bit had just been getting clear enough to jump. He gathers himself.

He leaps into the river below, and has several long moments of his fall and the wind whistling in his ears to dread what’s coming. The moonlight glitters off the water. He tenses and braces his head between his shoulders. The pain of his broken bones on the impact jolts him out of thought. He is entirely underwater, and panic kicks in. He’s never liked the water, and he doesn’t think he ever will. He doesn’t feel in control. It’s not like jumping. The air did not hold him up, it did not restrict him and its rules were that he was always falling and would find solid ground. With water, he would be tossed and turned in any direction with only the barest hint of notice, and he has never managed to stifle the animal urge to fight when he’s submerged despite his training; he does it before he has the chance to master himself and claws without grace at the river. He struggles to find the sky above the surface. Once he sees it he clumsily strikes for it, the Mongols’ burning-pitch bolts sizzling around him a minor concern. He gasps for breath as soon as his face breaks the surface, but the current pulls him back under before he can close his mouth. His lungs are filled with water, and he retches as he’s swept away. The bank, he has to find the bank. But the canyon walls are so sheer finding a bank is about as likely as him learning to swim in a moment of clarity. He can’t hope to get a grip to pull himself up and out, and the fight against the water is so absolute he doubts he’d have the strength to haul himself up the cliff face.

Altaïr becomes limp, focusing on keeping his head up and not getting more water into his mouth. The river takes him away, and he catches one last, fleeting glance at the fortress where he was born before he goes around a bend in the river. The current gives way to rapids, and Altaïr’s tossed again. He knows, somewhere, that there’s not long to go, he knows the river, but it’s still an awful, nightmarish experience. He feels woozy. His lungs are full of water, and he can’t make sense of anything. He lets the river carry him, weak.

Then he hears the boom of the waterfall, and clarity returns. Altaïr tries for the surface, and he manages to draw a quick breath through his teeth before he’s pulled away again. The current is swift around him, and he speeds up. If he were a religious man Altaïr would pray; he curses as he’s swept over the lip.

* * *

He drags himself ashore an undetermined time later. He doesn’t know where he is, and his collarbone is less painful than he remembers. It barely hurts when he prods it. He’s sick and nauseous, and as soon as he acknowledges the discomfort he throws up on the stony bank. Most of it is the water he swallowed, and the rush of blood to his head makes everything feel worse. All he wants is lay where he fell and sleep, but he can’t afford to do that. The Mongols have undoubtedly sent riders down the river in the hope to catch him, and Altaïr can’t do much where he is.

His scabbard is empty; his sword’s lost forever to the river, and all he has left in the way of weapons is his hidden blade. The gunpowder is ruined, and none of it he has on his belt is dry. He has a handful of coins.

He shucks the outer layer of his robes, then finds a rock to tie them around. In a way, it’s harder to throw the lot of it into the river than it was to leave the Apple, and with it he severs the last part of his life to the Masyaf Assassins. He’s left wearing his undershirt, trousers, and his boots. He’ll do his best to trade his clothes, his boots he’ll keep because cobbled shoes were worth far more than the clothes, then disappear.

He buys a horse in the first village he finds. There were few people left, as they were packing and fleeing towards cities that could protect them behind walls and weapons. The horse is an old nag that he pays good money for despite her age. The family, the richest in the village, has another younger, fitter horse, and in his youth Altaïr would have driven the bargain for that one, and if one couldn’t be reached, he’d have considered stealing it. But he takes the nag, buys some of their unwanted clothes, and asks where he is. The river goes west towards the sea, so he could have been anywhere in that stretch of land. They tell him he came ashore about six _parasang_ from Masyaf, closer than he was comfortable with. His first plan of action is to cross from the Seljuk Empire into the Byzantine and put the Mongols as far behind him as he can. The Assassins are dead to history, and it’s imperative that it become the narrative if they’re to survive. Before they were Assassins, their forebears called themselves _Hidden Ones_. As a child Altaïr had sneered at it as he’d sneered at many things. Where was the spectacle of the kill, and therefore the message, if it wasn’t performed in the open? At the heart of it their goals were politically tied. Part of these beliefs had extended from his grief for his father’s death, for if he had not been hidden, if he had challenged Salah ad-Din in the daylight in front of his men and struck the fear into them, then he would have lived to see Altaïr grow into a man. Altaïr had given his entire self to the Assassins and become the Son of No one, the Eagle of Masyaf, and would carry the name for the rest of his life.

Altaïr wanders.

His horse carries him west, slowly. It dies somewhere in Macedonia, and he buys another one to replace it, a young stallion fit and full of life. That one dies too. Years pass. In the year 1289 of the Christian calendar, thirty-two years after the fall of Masyaf, he has crossed the length of the Holy Roman Empire and finds himself standing in the lands of his enemies from a century ago. He had heard of what Francia is like, and it’s not until several days after he’s crossed the border does he know he’s in it. He stares around the landscape. He feels exhausted.

Acre falls to the Mamluks in 1291, and so the Crusaders and therefore the Templars lose their strongest hold on the Holy Land. There are more pockets of Crusaders up and down the coastal line, Altaïr hears, but it amounts to nothing. If Altaïr were younger he would crow victory, but the years have left him wiser, warier, and so bone-tired of the conflict he can barely move himself to feel anything for the news. The so-thought fall of the Assassin Brotherhood has lent him firsthand experience. Altaïr has spent the past years in Francia doing what amounts to little. Those years have flashed by like struck matches, and he jolts in surprise at the thought of them. He kneels on the bank of a slow moving river and looks at himself, unchanged for a hundred years. The hole the Apple has carved into his soul pangs suddenly for it. Altaïr sits back on his heels and looks up through the tree canopy stretching above him, sunlight glittering though the leaves.

“It’s done,” he tells himself. “It’s done.” He must keep moving.

Altaïr climbs to the rooftops of Francia’s cities and watches the people moving below with their lives, unaware of who or what he is, unable to see him. He is like smoke. In the monastery roofs of Charroux, he hears whispers amongst the priests of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ. Once he sees one of their knights taking prayer beneath the holy cross. Altaïr eyes him with indifference. But it’s what he says when he’s invited to sup with the priests and the monastery’s abbot Raimond de Châteauneuf that night that brings Altaïr’s interest. The year is 1307.

“Perhaps a braver man would call the king a fool,” one of the younger priests says as he tears a roll of soft bread in two. The abbot stares at him with fury, and to the Templar he apologises profusely, but the Templar has taken no offence. Altaïr perches amongst the roof beams, hidden in shadow, and listening to the conversation. He hasn’t let the Templar out of his sight since he arrived.

“The king is a fool to think he can worm his way out of his debt.”

“My lord,” the abbot protests, pale-faced, “surely that was a slip of the tong—”

“Have you ever been in the presence of our good king?” the Templar cuts over him. The abbot closes his mouth, and Altaïr can feel his frustration, but either the Templar cannot or does not care. He continues, “If you speak of the false criminal charges laid by our disgraced brother then be assured that they are, indeed, false. Even the Pope agrees.” The Templar takes a bite. “Philip insists on these charges because he wishes to do away with the money he owes to us. The royal treasuries are near-empty; who do you think financed his war with the English? We had a deal struck between us.”

That was the truth. Philip had been at war with the English over a manner of dissent and squabbles, many of which had arisen from the ashes of the Crusades and Acre’s fall. There were matters of unpaid homage between him and the English king Edward which had then escalated into a matter of vassal lands. There had been agreements struck, marriages proposed, then undermined, and so war had broken out between England and Francia. The war had ended three years ago, and left the crown in debt.

The old abbot quivers.

Altaïr pays a visit to the Templar that night as he lays abed in a sleeping cell, and bars the door. He pushes a pillow over the man’s face and he wakes in a panic, screaming and thrashing. Altaïr doesn’t let his strength up, and the Templar lapses into unconsciousness. Altaïr lashes him to his bed, gagging him and waiting for him to wake. It takes a few minutes.

“If you’re not still those ropes will tighten,” Altaïr says as the man screams into the bunched-up cloth in his mouth. “They tighten enough and you’ll lose your hands. You come from Paris? A yes or no is enough.”

The man nods, eyes burning with hate. Altaïr releases his hidden blade, the metal winking in the light of the tallow candle he has lit.

“Good. Why do you think your king a fool to stand up to de Molay? Your tongue says it’s over money but your eyes tell a different story. Is it something about the king, or about de Molay that drives your certainty?” He takes the gag from the Templar’s mouth.

“You’re an Assassin,” he coughs. “Your kind are supposed to be extinct.”

“And yet here I am, fifty years after we vanished.” Altaïr looms over him. “I want you to tell me what you know, and I will show mercy. If you do not, I will know everything I need to, but mercy …”

“You mean to torture me?”

“I don’t need torture. I only need access, and there is nothing in this world that will deny my entry.”

“Access to what?”

Altaïr takes him by the shoulder. “Your death.”

Altaïr takes the Templar into the fog, and the man cries out, the cords of his neck straining as he fights for breath. Altaïr cradles his head. “Hush, there is peace here. Now tell me,” he murmurs, “what have you been doing since the retreat from Acre, Templar?”

“I’m … I’m no one to the Order. Please, please, I barely know anything.”

“I can keep you here forever if I need to; only a heartbeat will pass outside. Thought is swifter than wind, and here we are only thoughts. You’re already dead, so if you want your God tell me quick.”

“The Grand Master and the king fight, they would be at each others throats if they were wolves,” the man whispers. “But the Grand Master does not care for the king’s anger. He has every confidence that if it comes to blood he will win. No one can appose him.”

“Why? He is just a man, and Grand Masters have fallen to kings in the past. I would know.”

“He has the power of God on his side,” the Templar insists. “He says it to all.”

Altaïr narrows his eyes. “Why does he say this? Faith?” He hasn’t known any true Templar Knight to be particularly holy.

“I … I don’t know what it was, but there was a relic brought …”

“A relic?” Altaïr shakes the Templar a little. “What relic? When?”

“I don’t know. Only … the Grand Master and his adviser know.”

“Thank you.” Altaïr kills him, and lays the body on the bed, crossing its hands over its chest.

He leaves for Paris in the grey pre-dawn light, and hears a wail from the monastery when the body is found. He has heard many grand stories of Paris from travellers, soldiers, and from Darim. Altaïr arrives in October, the air chilly and biting with the coming winter. He had expected more. The city’s heart is set on twin islands in the middle of the Seine, but the years have seen it spill to the banks. Though it is indeed a grand sight, with its towering buildings and number of houses, he sees instead a city half-made. Constructions riddle the skyline, and the palace in the centre is something Altaïr has seen at a dozen cities over the years. He presses his horse forward and scours for information on the streets.

Paris buzzes with the news of Grand Master de Molay’s arrest just days before. The Temple stronghold of the Knights Templar had been raided, de Molay’s second killed along with dozens of others. De Molay’s being held in the Château de Chinon almost two hundred miles south-west, but Altaïr lingers in Paris. Philip the Fair has arrested nearly every Templar Knight in Francia, and Altaïr feels his pulse slow at the news. This is not good news. The best advantage the Assassins held over the Templars now was that they were not longer a public organisation, whereas the Templars were. If de Molay is any kind of clever, he would use this opportunity to do the same as the Assassins had. His fears come true when the Pope dissolves the order in 1312.

Altaïr stays in Paris. He takes pains not to cross with the paths of Paris’ Assassins, and he spends the next years watching, guiding, searching for the relic. Another Sword, he discovers, and this one far more powerful than the Khans’ ever was. He doesn’t find it, and he fears that it’s been taken from the city. However, there are not even whispers of it. In 1314, de Molay is sentenced to burn as a heretic, confessed of worshipping demons, of debauchery. He is brought back to Paris for the execution.

Altaïr watches the Grand Master and Geoffroi de Charney, Preceptor of Normandy, burn on the night of the eighteenth of March, on the Île aux Juifs. Philip the Fair sits on an erected stage to witness, a brazier of coals on one side, and delectables on a silver platter on the other. Servants and pages await his command. Altaïr watches the Frankish king from a distance, and listens to the Templar Grand Master spit his curses. He’s crouched on a rooftop amongst snarling gargoyles. He sighs and closes his eyes.

He opens one when he hears the rustle of a bird’s feathers. An eagle is resting by him, watching him with bright eyes. It reminds him of the birds from home. He’s seen the birds of prey from this country; this one is a long way from where it should be. They are kindred souls in that regard.

“You’re tame,” Altaïr realises after a moment. “Where is your master?”

The bird chirrups and takes off, gliding in a short circle above his head and then flying to the east.

“I curse you, King Philip!” de Molay calls from his pyre. “Curse you to the thirteenth generation of your blood! You, shall be, cursed!” The king’s only reaction is to hold out his goblet for more wine. De Molay’s spitting words soon turn to coughs, and the smoke steals his screams. He’s dead before long.

Altaïr stands. His curiosity had been born from a sense of morbidness. After the seeming fall of the Assassins, it was only right to him he should witness the fall of the Templars. The fight, however, is far from over. It’ll never be over, for that is human nature.

Altaïr turns and stops when he sees a man in the black. No one has been able to sneak up on him. Altaïr’s more disturbed by that than the man himself, an African by his skin, most likely a Berber, dressed in white with a striped red and yellow scarf around his shoulders. Altaïr hadn’t Sensed him approach. He is _always_ aware of people. He watches the man, ready to move if need be. The Berber’s expression is slack, lost, and after an age, he takes a single, trembling step forward. He whispers hoarsely in a language Altaïr’s never heard before, but he stays where he is for a fascination. He cannot Sense this man, or his eagle. Just like when the Apple spreads its influence.

Altaïr looks him up and down. He has a great bow across his back, more than half as tall as him, and made of a matte black wood with gold trimmings. At his side is a grossly curved sword, and on his forearm is a bracer with a hidden blade. His left ring finger too is missing. A brother, then. His knee-length robes are travel stained and filthy, with woollen trousers and high-buckled boots. His hood is down, and his face is scarred.

The Berber stops an arm’s length before him. “You’re … like me,” he says in broken wonderment. “Gods …” Then he begins to laugh, but there is an edge to it; relief, hysteria. Altaïr doesn’t know how to react. He remains motionless and silent, still trying to Sense the man; it is wasted effort. Altaïr can Sense the space around him, but the Vision slips from the Berber’s skin like water from beeswax.

“You know nothing of me,” Altaïr says after a moment, “and be glad of it.”

The Berber’s laughter ceases, and he asks, “You’re still young to speak like that.”

“Young….” Altaïr’s one hundred and forty-ninth year had come two months ago. One hundred and nineteen years had gone since Darim’s birth, a hundred and seventeen since Sef’s. Eighty-six since Maria’s death, sixty-eight since Altaïr’s own death had been recorded in Assassin books. Fifty-seven years since Masyaf had fallen. Those events, the people that populated them, they’re little more than shapes and shadows in his mind, slipping back through the years like spider-silk into the dark. How sad. How terrible.

Altaïr’s mood curdles, and he looks resolutely towards the burning. He traces the metalwork of his bracer. “I haven’t been young for a long while.”

“Neither have I,” the Berber says. “Because you’re _like me_.” He reaches for Altaïr’s shoulders, but Altaïr catches his wrists, forces his arms down. He tries to, at least. He’s always been too strong, but for the first time since perhaps Robert de Sablé, he finds his strength equally matched. The Berber’s smile has no warmth to it. “Yes,” he hisses. “Yes, you _are_ like me. You have Their blood as much as I do. Of course you do, you still walk, you still breathe —”

“You’re mad,” Altaïr tells him.

The Berber laughs at him. “Perhaps! Or perhaps I am lonely and my head is crowded with ghosts and dead languages and _memories_ too great to count! How would you know?” His face twists. “How will you be when you reach your thousandth year, I wonder? Can you blame me, Arab?”

Altaïr’s arms lose their strength. He stumbles back, shaking his head. “What?” he demands, his full attention on this man. “What, do you mean? How … a thousand …”

“Aye. One thousand, three hundred. Years. A thousand …” The Berber’s arms drop to his sides, and he grits his teeth. He sits on the roof and crosses his legs. “A thousand … Gods.” He looks at his hands, lost, small. “Forgive me,” he says. “I … I have been lonely. I have acted out of line.”

Altaïr stoops down to the Berber’s eyeline, and pity stirs in him, as well as desperation for answers. “What did you mean about a thousand years? _Please._ ”

The Berber takes several deep breaths. The pulse jumping in his neck slows, his clenched fists slip and relax. He straightens his spine, tips his chin back. “How old are you?” he asks with calm composure.

“A hundred and fifty,” Altaïr says.

“Young,” the Berber repeats with a bitter quirk to the corner of his lips. “Younger than I when I first was told. I think.” He digs the palms of his hands into his eyes. “I can’t remember anything now.”

“Start with a name.” Altaïr’s voice is low.

“Which would you like? I’ve many.”

“Whichever pleases you.”

The Berber says, “Amun, Shed … To my loved ones, I was Bayek.”

* * *

They sit atop the nearly completed Notre-Dame de Paris, the perfect place for a private conversation. Altaïr learns the eagle is female, and that her name is Senu. It’s a word from Bayek’s native Coptic, a language that if not for conversing with the bird, he would have forgotten centuries past. It is the witching hours now, the moon so pale and hidden by the clouds Altaïr can barley see anything. He doesn’t need to though. He sits on an oaken beam that will become the roof, and next to him is the Assassin Bayek.

“Amun is a story,” Altaïr says. He can barely wrap his head around it. For that matter the situation is so absurd he expects to wake up from it at any moment.

“I’ve made it a story,” Bayek says. He can’t take his eyes off Altaïr, perhaps worried that if he looks away for even a moment Altaïr will vanish. Such hunger in his gaze. Senu spirals above them. “If people forgot that I existed then they will dismiss the holes in my story as fantasies made up throughout the years. I became too well known. But still I linger in _stories_. If only I am forgotten entirely.”

“People like us can’t be,” Altaïr says. “We stay and linger in the mind because such merit is placed on our actions. If I could go back I wouldn’t make myself smaller, for that would be tantamount to letting the most monstrous of men succeed.”

“I’ve heard of you, yes,” Bayek says. “The Eagle of Masyaf is famous. I never suspected you of all people would …”

“Be like you,” Altaïr finishes for him. “A thousand years….” He laughs with hopelessness, and it ends in a choke. A thousand years. That was enough time to see the rise and fall of empires, and this man must have seen it play out dozens of times. He thought an extra fifty years to be a horror, but a _thousand_. He can’t stop shaking with the thought, the horror, of it. The worst part is that he’s known for so long what this means but has refused to acknowledge it. He hates Rashid ad-Din Sinan, then wonders wildly if this would have happened regardless. “I cannot live so long,” he blurts. “I can’t, I can’t imagine it.”

“But we have no choice,” Bayek tells him. “I’ve had too much time to think about why this has happened. Long ago, I knew another like us. Her name was Kassandra.”

“ ‘Was’? What happened to her?”

“She died.”

“We can die.” Altaïr grips the revelation like a lifeline, and he fully turns to Bayek. “How? What happened?”

“If I knew how, do you think I would have stayed?” Bayek asks, angry. “I have wanted to die for centuries, little eagle. You cannot imagine.”

 _Oh, I can_ , Altaïr longs to say, but doesn’t. He wishes then he hadn’t left the Apple in the library, but it’s too late for that. Far, far too late. “I’ve had time to think,” is what he says. “I saw a vision of the future.”

“And what did _you_ see?” Bayek asks, and the tone of his voice bothers Altaïr. He ignores it for now.

“Myself,” he says, and walks along the narrow beam, back and forth, knowing he will not fall despite it being barely a handswidth across. “I saw myself in a place that I cannot imagine. Cold, harsh. Not like snow but like a box made of metal and false light.” He will produce a sketch of it, he thinks to himself, to better remember this room. Though he was shown the vision many years ago, he can picture it in all its clarity without issue. “I was held captive,” he says quietly. “ ‘ _Adhhab yumaris aljins mae nafsak_ ’, I told them. There was such hate in me.”

Bayek asks, “How far ahead is this future?”

Altaïr says, “And would you like me to explain how to weave moonlight into cloth? To tell you how to breathe water like a fish? Or perhaps you wish to hear how to walk on clouds?”

“Ack, I _understand_ ,” Bayek retorts. He scratches at his head, running his nails through his short-shorn hair. “There is a thing I know,” he seethes, “but I cannot remember … A _number_ , something important. I have said this, I have, I have heard it…. Damn this! Too many things in my head! Aya, Khemu, Kassandra. Aya my wife, Khemu my son, Kassandra my friend …” This he mutters several more times, a mantra to remember, and thinks some more. “Aya, Khemu, Kassandra. Aya, Khemu, Kassandra … I … Number, year, I was _told_. I cannot _remember_ —” Altaïr waits. Bayek rocks where he sits, hands locked behind his head. “Roman….”

“Two heads work better than one, Bayek of Siwa,” Altaïr says, and Bayek looks at him. “Your number will come back to you.”

“I can only hope,” Bayek says. “I’m glad we’re no longer alone.”

“I am, too,” Altaïr says thickly, and his shoulders slump. He means it. He cannot think about what would might have happened to him. He had seen madness in Bayek’s eyes, such fierce loneliness it frightened him to think on it. “We’ll have answers, brother, as to what this is.” And, he doesn’t voice, what this is for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ezio curls around the knife, shivering and cursing himself. After all of this, and it’s the subtle slip of a knife that ends it all. He wants to laugh at the irony of it._
> 
> \------
> 
> Next: Passages
> 
> If it isn't obvious I just want to write character meta by now, then I'm telling you. Altair is my 1/3rd of my _bois_. The current plan is to do one chapter of this and then one chapter of Fortitude until Fortitude is done, so the next chapter for this won't be out for several months yet. Thanks!


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